


Through the Darkest of Your Days

by robpatFF



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-22
Updated: 2012-07-22
Packaged: 2017-11-10 11:57:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 35,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/466012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robpatFF/pseuds/robpatFF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Harry thinks he might not really know what okay is, but Louis is warm next to him, solid and constant and questioning. He’s all wide eyes and nerves and vulnerability. And this feels alright, this might be some sort of okay, Harry thinks." Future!fic, roadtrip!fic, OT5 friendship!fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through the Darkest of Your Days

**Author's Note:**

> Anyway, this fic was meant to be a quick thing because I so desperately wanted more future fic. Then it turned into this 35,000 word monster. This would be absolutely nothing without mathab and coolbreeeze. They held my hand and fixed my words and were generally just the best people in the world, okay.

Twenty one meets Harry with a dry mouth and a pounding headache. He’s naked underneath the sheets, his eyes blinking against the daylight and his bladder begging for a piss. It takes him a second to come to his senses, to squint through the dizziness and remember where the fuck he is.

A quick glance at his phone tells him it’s a respectable hour of the day (for other people, not him, not in years).

The date takes him surprise, even though he’s been counting down the days. It’s not like he’s been hard up for alcohol, hasn’t been since they got big in America and had their faces plastered on every media outlet. But still. It’s nice that he doesn’t have to deal with the nagging guilty feeling every time he orders another vodka and coke underaged. He’s sure the bartenders will stop giving him those pity looks, too, now that he’s not “Illegally Drinking His Fame Away”.

That’s what they call it anyway. He still reads the articles. It’s fucked that some days he finds himself missing Sugarscape.

Harry sinks back under the covers. His whole body hurts, and he tries to piece together the night before. His bed doesn’t smell like anyone else, just sweat and alcohol and himself. He doesn’t remember picking anyone up; he thinks he might have been half asleep when he hit the bar anyway, someone from security holding him upright as he knocked back another shot.

There’s a distant memory of flashing lights, of blaring movement and a body against his, snug against the bar. People might have recognized him, probably did recognize him, fresh off the covers of their favorite gossip rag and pinned up on the internet for the entire world to see.

Sometimes Harry feels stretched thin, like his skin is being ripped apart seam by seam until all that’s left is his bones, exposed and waiting to snap. Sometimes it feels like if he has to fake another sweet smile in front of the cameras his teeth might fall out, like his lips might crack from being pulled too far across his face.

Today though, today he just feels tired. His eyes ache from being closed too long. There’s a pain waiting behind them, a vague sense of discomfort that will only grow the longer he stays in bed. He wonders if there’s any bottles left in the fridge, or if Paul called ahead and told the hotel to empty it out. He does that sometimes, if he’s seen Harry’s eyes glazed over for too many hours in the day, if Harry’s hands shake a little too much and his foot won’t stop tapping out the same restless rhythm.

Harry should thank him one day, should say that he appreciates how much Paul is trying to help. Paul doesn’t have to, not anymore, now that there’s not a band for him to actually _handle_. But he does though, and somewhere, too deep for Harry to reach or even care, Harry thinks he’s grateful for it.

Now though, today, he pulls the pillow over his head and goes back to sleep.

\-----

It’s barely daytime when he wakes up again, the sun a faded light streaming through the curtains and lighting up his hotel room.

His eyes feel less gritty this time around, the pain in his neck and shoulders decreased to a reasonable ache, persistent but easily ignored.

Harry pushes himself from the bed and contemplates food. The thought of something greasy is appealing to him, and his stomach actually grumbles at the thought of something substantial.

There are panties on the bathroom floor, and he doesn’t bother trying to remember whose they are or when they got there. Housekeeping will get it, and if not, Harry will wait for the story to break, for some blond or brunette to get their fifteen minutes of fame, courtesy of a drunken romp with Harry Styles.

His phone vibrates with missed calls and text messages as he’s getting out of the shower, his head uncomfortably clear after the steam and heat. Harry forgoes clothes and lays out on the bed in his towel, water seeping onto the sheets and the duvet.

He scrolls through the birthday wishes. Half of them are from numbers he’s long since forgotten, obtained after long nights of dancing and sweat and vodka, after sex and kisses and half-mumbled promises he knew he didn’t mean to keep. The other half are half-assed, quick messages that are obligatory but not really meant. He scrolls past those too, because he knows (he’s always known, he’ll always know) that there’s really only one number he’s looking for anyway.

It won’t be there of course; it hadn’t been for the last birthday and Harry doesn’t really know when he’ll stop expecting it.

He feels bad when he scrolls past his mum’s message, and her missed call, and her voicemail, but he’s not really up to talking to her. Hasn’t been since he told her he was moving to LA (for work, he’d said. It makes him sick to think about it now). He makes a mental note to call her when he gets back home, whenever that will be. But it’s not like it matters, because Harry thinks she’s maybe given up on expecting him to call her anyway.

His eyes stray to the fridge again, enticing and dangerous all the same. But his fingers are trembling and his head hurts and so Harry decides to look. It seems like Paul hadn’t gotten around to calling this time, so he’s stocked for at least a week. The mini-bottles are cool in his hands, comfortable, and Harry feels a twisted sense of coming home when the burning liquid goes down his throat. He relishes that burn, lives for it now, it seems, and he loses himself in the fuzzy feeling he gets after three bottles and the weight in his chest that feels almost permanent now.

He’s thinking of going down to the bar when his phone buzzes again, insistent. It takes him three tries to grab it, to focus enough to squint at the screen and make out the _Liam Payne_ that flashes in front of him.

Ignoring this one seems almost as bad as ignoring his mum, so Harry collapses back on the bed and answers.

“Happy Birthday,” is the first thing Liam says. Harry knows he wouldn’t have forgotten, even though they haven’t spoken properly in a year and a half. Even though the last time they saw each other in person Harry reeked of beer and his nose had been rubbed raw (and the magazines had a field day with that; _Has One Direction’s most burnt out member turned to drugs?_ , they’d asked, and Harry couldn’t stop laughing because he felt like he was always burning, like his skin was inflamed and no one fucking _cared_ and god, he wished he would just fucking burn out already) and Liam had looked so disappointed that Harry had just bolted.

Harry closes his eyes and tries not to feel comforted by how sincerely earnest Liam sounds. He doesn’t really think he deserves it, and even if he does, Liam almost feels like a stranger now.

“Thanks, Li,” he manages, and he hopes he sounds like he appreciates it, because he does.

Liam sighs like he knows anyway, and maybe he does know, because he’d always known them all better than they’d known themselves. “I heard you’re in Las Vegas,” he says instead, instead of telling Harry to stop drinking or to _get help_. “Is it the same as when we were all there?”

“Well, there are no screaming fifteen year olds,” Harry tells him. There are screams, though, from people behind cameras and girls hiding behind fake smiles and fake tits and yeah, there is still a lot of goddamn screaming. Harry doesn’t tell Liam that though, just lets him believe that this Las Vegas is the same one that hosted them the last time, almost two years ago now. “It’s still hot as anything. Even in February.”

He can hear Liam’s smile on the other end. “Do you remember when you tried to sneak into the casino that one night? And Paul caught you trying to charm your way past security?”

Harry does remember. Louis has been his lookout, a shit one at that, and Harry had been found within ten minutes. It had been funny then, when none of them knew anything about anything. It’s even funnier now that they do. “Yeah, I remember. He was a bit mad, wasn’t he?”

“A bit mad? Harry, we thought he was going to throw you out of the hotel window,” Liam says. He’s laughing, which makes Harry laugh. It hurts almost, because Harry forgot how easy it was to talk to Liam. “He didn’t stop yelling until Louis and Zayn tried to make the tub into a pool.”

They had made the tub into the pool, and everyone had been furious when they’d had to pay the damages, apparently in the thousands. Louis had actually looked contrite for once in his life, but that had lasted all of a day until he thought of the next thing he could do to terrorize everyone.

The phone is silent, and Harry wants another drink, aches for it really. It feels wrong though, with Liam so close. Harry’s never much liked disappointing Liam. Instead he lets Liam build up the lecture he’s sure to give, and Harry tries to calm himself so he doesn’t snap.

He watches the clock on the wall instead, counts the minutes in his head until Liam breaks. He idly wonders if Liam’s back in Wolverhampton, back with his family. He thinks about asking about Danielle.

But he doesn’t.

Instead he taps out a beat on his stomach and thinks about leaving the hotel for once.

But he probably won’t do that either.

“Harry,” Liam finally says. He sounds a bit tired, and for a spiteful moment Harry wonders what the fuck he has to be tired about. “How have you been?”

It takes a lot to hold in the bitter laugh. Liam had always been naive, had always thought things would get so much better with time. Harry fights the venom from his voice though, because this is _Liam_. “I’m sure you know better than me,” he says.

“I only know what the media tells me,” Liam admits. “The Sun still loves you, anyway.”

“Do they?” Harry asks idly. “They don’t think I’m a lost cause, then?”

Liam is silent. He’s naive, but he’s not stupid.

“What do you want me to say?” Harry sighs and runs a hand over his face, suddenly exhausted. “I’m alright. Still alive, at least.”

“Is that supposed to be comforting?” Liam asks. He sounds genuinely curious, and something about that makes Harry smile.

“It’s supposed to be true,” Harry tells him. “I’m alright, Li. No need to pick out my casket yet.”

Harry immediately feels bad for the silence after, for the way he can hear Liam’s breath catch. “Don’t joke about that,” Liam says, quiet. Serious.

Harry doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do if he can’t joke about his own life. It’s certainly not as if he can actually _face_ it.

“Sorry,” he says. It feels like he’s apologizing for more than this though, and he’s not sure if he’s ready to do that.

“Have you--” Liam sounds nervous, and it sets Harry’s teeth on edge. “Have you talked to anybody?”

Harry watches the lights from the other hotels flicker on as the suns sets, watches as The Strip comes to life at night. “Like who?”

“ _Anybody_ , Harry. Your mum? A therapist? A friend?”

“I thought that’s what you were,” Harry says. His voice is slurring. From exhaustion. From alcohol. He doesn’t know. “Are you not my friend anymore, Liam Payne?”

Liam sighs. His voice is resigned but firm. Sure. And Harry likes that about Liam. That he always means what he says. “I’ll always be your friend, Harry.”

“Good.”

They sit in silence again, tense but acceptable. Harry counts the tiles on the ceiling and wonders if he should order room service.

“Have you talked to him?” Liam finally asks, and Harry lets himself relax because he’d been expecting this. This isn’t new.

He doesn’t think his voice cracks when he says, “You know I haven’t. He doesn’t want to talk to me.” They haven’t talked in almost a year and a half, and one of these days Harry will convince himself that he likes it this way.

“Harry--”

“ _Liam_.”

“You should call him,” Liam says. “Just to, I don’t know, say hello.”

Harry scoffs and ignores the sting in his eyes, the burn in his throat that has nothing to do with drinking. “And then what? Wait for him to tell me to piss off?”

Liam rarely raises his voice, but when he does it always used to make Harry listen. Still does. “You don’t know he’ll do that.” Liam realizes he’s as close as he’ll ever get to yelling and he quiets and softens his tone. “He’s still the same Louis.”

“But I’m not the same Harry,” and neither of them know quite what to say after that.

Eventually Liam gives up. Maybe because he’s as tired of Harry as Harry is of himself. Or maybe he honestly has something else to do. One day Harry will find it in him to ask about Liam’s life. To act like he actually gives a shit about anyone but himself (and barely that, barely that).

“Will you do something for me then?” Liam asks. “Since you won’t call Louis.”

And Harry doesn’t even have to agree, because One Direction has been done for two years, but they’ll never stop trying to please Liam.

“Anything you want, Li,” he says anyway.

“Go home,” Liam says. “Go back to LA, Harry. Alright?”

Harry thinks of all the plans he had for Vegas. The parties and the drinking and the sex and the clubs. He thinks about how he could barely get out of bed this morning, thinks of the alcohol thrumming through his blood now, leaving him dizzy. Thinks about Liam Payne worrying about him from halfway across the world.

“Okay,” he says finally. “Okay, Liam.” He can do that. “I’m still not calling Louis though.”

“Fine,” Liam tells him, and they both know it’s not.

\-----

Los Angeles isn’t as hot as Vegas but it feels more crowded, everything feels closer and Harry feels trapped even as he escapes his flight. He hears the questioning murmurs, feels the stares like a bullet in his back. His security moves closer around him, but it doesn’t matter, because people still _talk_.

“Is that Harry Styles?”

“Shit, he looks bad.”

“Did you get a picture?”

“Do you think he’ll give me an autograph?”

Harry ducks his head down and dons his sunglasses. He’s indoors and he looks like a dick, but at least the cameras won’t catch how red his eyes are, the bags that are dug deep right beneath.

They shove him into the car outside, the cameras flashing in his face and the paparazzi screaming at him. Sometimes Harry dreams about screaming back, asking what the hell they want from him that he hasn’t already given them for free. He bites down hard on his lip instead until he tastes blood, until the pain is all he feels. He keeps biting down until one of the guys starts to worry, and Harry smiles until he looks away.

Things quiet the closer they get to his apartment. Harry feels the anxiety like lead in his stomach, settling in deep. There’s too much space in his apartment, too much room, too much silence, too much time for him to spend thinking. He doesn’t want to think, he doesn’t want to feel, he just wants to drink until his mind goes blank and his face goes numb and he can’t remember why he’d gotten like this in the first place.

His apartment smells like shit, and that’s the first thing he notices. Harry doesn’t remember when he stopped getting the place cleaned, doesn’t remember when the dishes started to pile on top on one another and his clothes started leading to his room like breadcrumbs. He drops his bags by the door and takes out the trash, throws his used plates and glasses in the sink and stares.

His hands shake while he’s washing the dishes, and he feels the need for a drink like a siren song. He turns the water to scalding and lets it sting him, forces his hands under the water until they’re flaming red, until his breath hisses through his teeth and he lets out a curse and has to pull back. His hands sting, they ache, his whole body _aches_ and god, he’s tired.

Harry grabs a bottle (vodka at home, because it’s fast and it burns and it makes him numb) and walks past his clothes and into the bedroom. The bed’s unmade, smells like sex and sweat and booze, and he doesn’t even care, just sits on top of his clothes and his sheets and he drinks.

Harry drinks until his lips are buzzing and his eyelids get heavy and he grins because he can’t feel anything. He lets himself fall back on the bed and breathe in. He smells like old cologne and cheap soap and so much fucking alcohol, and Harry can’t stop laughing because this is his _life_.

The boy from the bakery, Harry from Holmes Chapel, the one with the curls, reduced to nothing but a has-been drunk.

It’s funny, in a way. That he was the only one to break so thoroughly.

Louis hadn’t been broken, and the unfairness of that makes Harry grit his teeth, grinding hard so he doesn’t scream. Louis had been _fine_ , hadn’t cared about the speculation and the bullshit, hadn’t minded being told how to be, who to be _with_. He’d just gone along with it, couldn’t seem to understand why Harry couldn’t.

Harry isn’t thinking when he stumbles back out of his room to grab his phone. He feels the anger thrumming through his veins and his vision’s blurred and it’s been almost two years and he wants to fucking know _why_. The number has been deleted from his phone for months now but Harry knows it anyway, could probably dial it in his sleep. He could dial it from his grave, the numbers engraved into his mind like a brand.

And that’s fitting, because Louis has never done anything but own Harry. Claimed him from the day Simon told them they were a group and Harry saw Louis smile.

The phone ringing seems loud in Harry’s quiet house, the walls bearing judgement on him as he lays on the floor and waits.

And waits.

It keeps ringing, until the click of the answering machine comes on.

Harry dials again, his fingers pressing clumsily over the keys. His heart is beating on overtime and he presses a hand over a chest, just to feel. His breaths are short and labored, and his whole body feels heavy as he waits.

He’s about to give up when someone picks up, and the “Hello?” that’s spoken through the phone makes Harry dizzy.

“Hello?” the person says again, and of course it’s Louis, of course. “Is anybody there?”

Harry’s throat feels dry, his voice caught up in painful lump. He pushes past the fog in his head and tries to speak, tries to say _something_. “Hi,” he manages, and it’s so goddamn stupid that he laughs, this hysterical thing that makes his stomach hurt. “Hi, Louis.”

There’s a long silence, and Harry wonders what Louis is doing right now. If he’s happy. If he ever drinks to forget the past five years of his life. If he misses Harry at all. If he ever feels like he’s missing a limb or his heart or his other half. If it ever consumes him so much he thinks he might drown from the very thought of it, thinks the only way out is to sleep and never wake up so he doesn’t feel anything anymore.

“Why are you calling me?” Louis asks. “Jesus, Harry.”

Harry stares up at the ceiling and wonders the same thing. He thinks about hanging up, but Louis sounds so lovely, all those miles away, safe from Harry. “I don’t know,” he says. “I was thinking about you. I still remember your number, you know. I can’t seem to forget it.”

“Why are you calling me?” Louis asks. He sounds the same but different, something fragile embedded into his tone, and Harry wonders how much it would take to break it. To break Louis.

“It’s not fair, you know,” Harry says instead. “That you were okay with everything. I wasn’t okay. ‘m not okay, Louis.”

Louis sighs. This ragged exhale that makes Harry shiver. “You’re drunk,” Louis tells him. “You called me because you’re drunk.”

There’s music in the background, loud and bass-filled. “Are you at a party?”

“It’s my friend’s birthday,” Louis says. “Fuck, Harry, I can’t do this right now.”

Harry scoffs and tries to get up. He feels heavy though, too heavy. Tired. Exhausted. “You couldn’t even be bothered to call me on my birthday.”

“And say what?” Louis snaps. Harry has missed him being angry, has missed the way his cheeks flushed and his eyes narrowed and he spat out whatever thought came to mind. “What do you want me to say? Happy Birthday?”

“Yes,” Harry mumbles. His eyes drift shut, his drinks from the plane and the half-drunk bottle of vodka finally catching up with him. The floor is hard under his back, his elbows digging into the wood. There are spots behind his eyes, bright flashes of colors that make him smile. “Sing me happy birthday, Lou. Like you used to.”

The music gets quieter, Louis’ voice clearer in the speaker. “You can’t do this. It’s been two years, Harry.”

The room feels like it’s spinning, and Harry laughs, can’t stop laughing. It’s funny, that’s Louis’ here, here but not here, just as far away from Harry as ever. His breath hitches and he’s still laughing, but his chest heaves and everything hurts. His eyes sting and his throat hurts and Harry is so fucking tired.

“Harry?” Louis says. “ _Harry_?”

Harry lets his eyes stay closed, lets his breathing even out. Louis’ voice is loud through the speaker, almost too loud, and Harry tries to tell him to be quiet, to shut up for one goddamn second. Louis keeps calling his name, the same frantic tone over and over again and he is so goddamn loud that Harry wonders why he ever found it endearing.

He opens his mouth to say something, to tell Louis to shove it because he’s trying to sleep but his head is spinning and his throat is tight and Louis is so fucking loud. There’s black at the edges of his vision, creeping over his consciousness, and Harry is so drunk. He closes his eyes and lets it take him, because Harry is tired and Louis’ voice is right there, so stupidly loud but so familiar that Harry can’t help but trust him when he says, “It’s going to be okay, Harry. Harry, do you hear me? You’re going to be okay.”

The room fades.

\-----

Harry has a pattern whenever he’s at home. He blares the television to try and drown out the silence, turns the volume all the way up so he doesn’t have to hear himself think. He used to watch the news (so he could at least pretend to care about something, anything), but most days news is slow and it turns into gossip fodder, speculating over whatever celebrity they can tear to pieces.

He’d stopped watching the news the day he’d heard his own name on there, saw the grainy, enlarged photos of himself leaving a club. He hadn’t even recognized it, hadn’t even remembered that night. But that was his own face on his television screen, his eyes sunken into his head and his mouth bruised from kissing someone he couldn’t even remember. They’d had specialists on there (experts, they said, experts who had never even fucking met him) that told the scandal-hungry viewers what a fine line Harry Styles was treading, how close he was to crashing.

Some days Harry feels like he’s already crashed, that every day is just the aftermath of that, the aches and pains that settle deep under his skin just a reminder of it. Some days he can’t even be bothered with picking up a drink, too tired to appreciate the buzz between his lips, the burning liquid too much for his raw throat, his head pounding too much to allow him to become pleasantly numb.

He spends three days on the couch after calling Louis, his mind blank from the Spanish novellas he keeps on. He doesn’t understand any of it, but it keeps him distracted, and it keeps him away from the bottle. He sleeps more than he has in weeks, waking up to hysterical Latinas on his screen and following the same storyline, show after show. It’s calming almost, to have some sort of consistency, even if it is just a foreign language soap opera.

Something still feels unsettled, though, more than usual. It’s like a prick in the back of Harry’s neck, a weight in his stomach that makes him feel nauseous. It feels distantly familiar, the awareness of _something_ that makes Harry get up and pace, his eyes glancing towards his phone. There’s something nagging, almost like he’s expecting something. It makes him jittery and nervous and flustered, makes him unable to sleep or eat because he’s just _waiting_.

So it shouldn’t surprise him when Louis shows up in the middle of the night. His breath shouldn’t catch when he answers the banging on his door, when Louis storms in with a beanie tugged over his hair and a duffel shoved over his shoulder. Harry shouldn’t be surprised when the other boys come trailing in after him, each of them sporting varying looks of sympathy and pity.

Harry shouldn’t be surprised when the anxious feeling leaves and his nerves settle just a little bit.

\-----

It’s a bit surreal having them all in his apartment. They should look out of place, but Niall just lays out on the sofa, his easy grin pointed at Harry. Zayn takes the armchair and puts his feet up, just like Harry remembers, his legs wide and his head tipped back in exhaustion.

Louis shoves past them all, his feet heavy in the silence and his voice tired and strained when he yells, “I’m taking the bedroom!” from down the hall, and Harry hears the door slam and lock. It’s only Liam who stays put, and he hovers hesitantly around Harry, his smile gentle but wary.

“Hey, Li,” Harry manages. He feels overexposed in his sweats and ratty T-Shirt, his clothes smelling rank and his hair matted to his head.

It doesn’t seem to matter to Liam though, because he throws his arms around Harry, his grip tight and firm. Harry stands stiff in the embrace, because he hasn’t hugged Liam in years, hasn’t been this close to _any_ of them in years. Liam smells so fucking familiar though, earthy and boyish and real, and it reminds Harry of cramped tour busses and stolen flannel shirts, too big on his frame but too comfortable to let go.

“Harry,” Liam breathes out. “Hug me back, please.”

Harry lets out a shaky exhale and squeezes back. Liam feels strong underneath him, steady, and he can’t help but cling now that he’s been given permission. His pushes his face into Liam’s collar and breathes in, breathes in all the memories he didn’t know he still had. He forces himself to stay still, and he intertwines his fingers so they they don’t tremble against Liam’s back.

“Are we doing a group hug then?” Niall asks.

“No,” Liam mumbles. “This is my hug. Get your own.”

Zayn snorts. His eyes are at half-mast and his lips thinned, but he doesn’t look angry. Just tired. World-weary in a way that Harry is intimately familiar with. “Don’t be selfish, Li.”

Liam sighs and the hand around Harry’s waist tightens. “Come on then,” he says finally. “Group hug.”

Niall comes behind Liam and Zayn behind Harry, and he shakes with how good they feel around him, Zayn’s arms wrapping around his back and tugging him close. Harry feels his chin on his shoulder, the heady smell of whatever expensive cologne he wears now. “Missed you,” Zayn murmurs.

“Aw, didn’t you miss me?” Niall teases, and he laughs when Zayn glares. “That’s a yes.”

“I didn’t miss any of you,” Liam grumbles, but he holds Harry tighter when he tries to pull back, and Harry can see the way he moves to makes his arms fit around Zayn as well. “Not one bit.”

Niall is the first to let go, his hand ruffling Harry’s hair a bit. “Do you know what I missed? Every meal today.” He walks into the kitchen and Harry can hear him opening the fridge. “Hey, Haz, you know you don’t have any food in here?”

Harry feels a reluctant smile on his lips, the slight tug that pulls them upward. “Sorry, Nialler,” he tells him. The nickname feels strange, stale in his mouth, because he hasn’t said it in what feels like forever. “Could order something in, if you want.”

“Pizza?” Zayn asks hopefully, and Liam lets out a breathy laugh against Harry’s neck, his mouth right up against Harry’s skin. “Extra cheese.”

“Extra cheese,” Harry agrees. He feels a slight pang of loss when Zayn pulls away and orders, but Liam is still there, a warm constant. “Are you going to let me go any time soon?”

“Maybe,” Liam says. “He was worried about you, you know.”

Harry tenses and fights the urge to pull back. “Yeah, I could really tell,” he says bitterly. Louis hadn’t even bothered to _look_ at him, hadn’t even said anything before taking over Harry’s bedroom. “He seemed thrilled to see me.”

Liam sighs. It sounds tired, and Harry realizes they must have been flying for ages just to get here. He struggles to find the words to say thank you, to show some gratitude, but they get stuck in his throat. Trapped. “Why are you guys here?” he says instead.

Liam shrugs, and he finally releases Harry. “Where else would we be?”

He walks into the kitchen then, and Harry lets him.

They’re quiet while they wait for the food, Zayn dozing on the couch and Liam and Niall in the kitchen with Harry. He feels under observation beneath the bright, fluorescent lights. Liam’s eyes are like a tangible weight, heavy and shrewd. Niall’s gaze is less so, but still present, with the way his eyes flicker to the bags that sit like bruises under Harry’s eyes and Harry’s thin wrists. He fights the urge to get a jacket, to cover up, to hide.

They all jump when the pizza comes.

Liam scrambles to get everything together, and it’s almost cute when he tries to hide his displeasure when he finds all Harry’s dishes piled in the sink, half-washed from before.

“We’ll just use napkins, yeah?” he says, and Zayn and Niall both follow his lead.

“Louis, get your arse out here!” Zayn yells. “We have pizza.”

Harry stares down at the table, concentrates on keeping his breathing steady. He makes sure the others don’t notice the way his hands tremble in his lap, the way his breath seems to get stuck in his chest. It’s harder when Louis comes out, his face blank and his eyes hard.

There have only been a few times Harry’s seen him like this, so cut off. It had mostly been at the end of their fame, the end of their peak, when he and Louis were yelling more than talking and hitting more than hugging. When every word was designed to hurt, to be so sharp that it took a piece of the person with it. Left them that much more vulnerable.

Only it seemed that after a while, it was only Harry yelling. Louder with every silence Louis adopted, glaring where Louis stared blankly, destroying their hotel room while Louis just walked out.

They eat in silence, though Niall seems to be the only one unaffected by it. He keeps his hand near Harry’s, squeezing it every time he goes in for another slice. It’s nice, it is, but it does nothing to settle the dread in Harry’s stomach. Because the silence is weighted, and it says more than any of them need to.

He feels too aware of the way all their eyes drift over to him. The way Liam frowns when Harry picks at his slice, the way Zayn’s fingers drum on the table in the way that Harry knows means he’s stressed, means he needs a cigarette to sort his head out. Niall doesn’t say anything, but his fingers push Harry’s pizza towards him while he eats his own.

Harry wants a drink, wants to feel the burn in his chest and the buzz in his head. Wants to hear the blood rushing through and feel his body loosen up, the soothing sluggishness that makes him brave. Stupid, but brave. He wants to forget that this is his reality right now, wants to disappear into his own world of drunken ignorance.

His feet are taking him to the bar before he even realizes, his hands shaking around his glass as he pours. He can feel the burn of their stares on his back, prickling like a touch. He ignores it though and just drinks, his shoulders relaxing when he tastes the bitter alcohol in the back of his throat.

His fingers tighten around the glass when someone gets up from the table, but he doesn’t bother turning around.

“Is that all you do now?” Louis asks him, his voice flat and disinterested. “You can’t even have a fucking meal without getting drunk?”

Harry grits his teeth and turns. Louis still has that blank look in his eyes, like he’s not even seeing Harry. His lips are bitten raw and his face pale, almost exhausted. Louis has always tried to hide everything he was feeling, but Harry can’t help but feel the faintest bit of satisfaction at seeing him crack, just a little. Seeing him feel more than he wants to let on.

“Fuck you,” Harry tells him. It’s quiet, and Harry’s voice trembles around the words as he forces them out. “Fuck you, Louis.”

Louis’ eyes widen almost too fast for Harry to catch it, but he does. He sees the way Louis physically recoils from the words like Harry had reached out and hit him. Harry thinks about doing it, because Louis looks so goddamn put together, even now. Harry’s palm itches to feel the sting, to break Louis by force so he knows what Harry feels, has been feeling, will probably always feel.

He swallows hard when Louis stalks out of the room, his back ramrod straight and his body stiff.

Liam lets out a shaky breath and stares hard at the table. Harry swallows another mouthful to get rid of the guilt he feels creeping up his spine.

“If you came here to try and _fix_ me,” Harry spits out, “then you can all just fuck off, too.”

He walks out then, because Niall looks guilty and Zayn looks unimpressed and Liam hasn’t moved at all. The doors to the balcony slam behind him and Harry breathes in the chilly air, relishes the rush he gets from the cold. His body shivers but he fights against it, grits his teeth and takes the sharpness in the air, the way the wind travels up under his clothes and gives him goosebumps.

He can hear Niall through the door, loud compared to the subdued way Liam answers him. Harry drops into a chair and stares, his eyes not really seeing anything. He thinks he bought this house for the view, but it seems so stifling now. His house seems stifling. His _life_ seems stifling.

The balcony door creaks open and Harry doesn’t look to see who it is. He only knows it’s Zayn when he pulls out his cigarettes, the smoke calming Harry in its familiarity.

“You mind?” Zayn asks, and Harry snorts. “Some people don’t like the smell.”

Harry shifts his chair over so Zayn can pull one up. Zayn looks tired, the shadows making his face look long and exhausted. “Have I ever minded?”

“People change,” is all Zayn says though, and Harry doesn’t have anything to say to that.

They sit in silence, the only sound being Zayn’s quiet exhalations. His hair is down, without all the gel and height, and Harry wonders if it’s still as soft it used to be, the strands still as thick when his fingers ran through it. Zayn closes his eyes and tips his head back, the cigarette dangling from his fingers.

“Is Liam upset with me?” Harry asks finally. He can only push at the guilt for so long before it sneaks back up on him, tight and unrelenting.

Zayn doesn’t move, just lets out a laugh that doesn’t have much humor to it. “You’re worried about if Liam’s mad?”

“Who else would I be worried about?”

Zayn takes another lungful of smoke, his cheeks hollowing out as he levels a flat look at Harry. “He called Liam that night, you know.”

Harry shrugs.

“You blacked out while you were on the phone with him,” Zayn elaborates, his tone rougher and harsher than before. “Liam said he’d never heard Louis that hysterical before.”

“Louis is known for drama,” Harry cuts in, but he stops when Zayn gets up, his chair scraping loudly against the ground.

He slumps over the balcony railing, and Harry sees how skinny he is, how fragile he looks under his jumper and jeans. “Do you even remember Paul coming over to check on you? You’re an idiot, Harry.”

Harry doesn’t disagree.

“Has it ever felt like too much?” he asks. He pulls his knees up and watches Zayn blow out smoke, watches it fade into the night. “Do you ever feel like you can’t handle it?”

Zayn sits back down and pulls his chair closer to Harry’s. “All the time,” he admits. “I used to think I could. I used to think if I kept some parts of myself private that they couldn’t get to me. But you can only hide so much of yourself before you can’t find it anymore.”

“I think I gave too much,” Harry says. “Now I don’t if I have anything left.”

“You have us,” Zayn tells him. “As much as you might hate it.”

Harry leans over and rests his head on Zayn’s shoulder. “I don’t hate it.”

“Good.”

They watch the night, listen to the silence that surrounds them. The inside of the house is quiet, and when Harry glances back he sees the lights are off. He doesn’t want to go back in though, even though the air is getting colder, even though he can feel Zayn trembling just slightly next to him.

“Do you ever want to run away?” Harry asks him. “Just like, get away from it all?”

Zayn shivers and pulls his jacket closer. “Sometimes, yeah.”

Harry closes his eyes and lets the exhaustion fall over him. “We should,” he mumbles. “We should run away.”

“Okay,” Zayn agrees. And he doesn’t say anything else, so Harry falls asleep.

\-----

Harry wakes with a sore neck and a laptop being shoved in his face. “Pick a place,” Zayn is saying. He’s hovering over Harry on the couch, his eyes still puffy with sleep and hair a mess. “Somewhere really touristy.”

“Why touristy?” Harry clears his throat, his voice hoarse from the late night. “And can you get that out of my face?” he says, his hand batting at the bright screen glaring in his gritty eyes.

Zayn obliges, his face coming back into view. He shoves Harry over and squeezes next to him, his body still sleep-warm. “Because you’re shit at being famous. So maybe you’ll be better at being a tourist.” He shrugs and leans back into the sofa, but Harry sees the pink on his cheeks and the way he won’t meet Harry’s eyes. “And you said you wanted to run away. I’m just giving all of us some options.”

“All of us?” Harry repeats. He grabs the laptop from Zayn and reads down the list. “America’s Top Tourist Attractions.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Don’t be a twat,” he warns. “It’s not like I could let you run off by yourself. Liam would kill me.” He points at the screen. “Pick one.”

Harry looks over the list. “We’ve been to Times Square a million times.”

“Not as tourists,” Zayn reminds him. “We can stop in the middle of the sidewalk and take pictures and everything.”

Harry scrolls through the rest of the list. He wants to go somewhere that will help him forget, somewhere that will take his mind off everything here. “Colorado has cliff-diving, did you know?”

“Why would you want to go cliff-diving?”

Harry shrugs, but his eyes are glued to the screen. “Can you imagine that? Just jumping off a cliff like that, hitting the water after flying through the air? Hell of an adrenaline rush.”

“Hell of a suicide attempt,” Zayn counters. “Not all of us have a death wish.”

“I don’t have a death wish,” Harry tells him, but Zayn is already standing up. “Where are you going?”

“To tell the boys we’re going cliff-diving, obviously,” Zayn says. “Maybe it’ll scare you straight and you’ll never pick up a drink again.”

Harry snorts and leans in when Zayn ruffles his hair. ‘Maybe,” he relents. He wants to say thank you, but it sticks in his throat again. Zayn must know though, because he walks away with a murmured, “Lucky I love you, you arsehole,” and leaves Harry alone.

\-----

After twenty nine hours in a SUV with his former bandmates, there is nothing Harry wants to do more than jump off a cliff.

His legs ache from being cramped up in the car, despite the night in the hotel and hot shower this morning. He can still feel the scratchy hotel blankets on his skin, rough and thin enough to leave him freezing. Harry’s head aches from staying up too late, from staring out the window and listening to the boys sleep, from the pair of eyes he could _feel_ on his back all night.

It doesn’t help that Liam drives like he’s just learned to. The car moves at a glacial pace, and Harry watches the Colorado landscape come into view with an eagerness he didn’t know he still possessed. He aches to stretch his legs, to break away from this car and get some feeling in his right side again from where Niall is pressed tight up against him.

“Alright, Harry?” Niall asks, and Harry nods but presses his head against the cool window.

Harry tries to tune out the murmured conversation Liam and Louis are having in the front. He just catches Liam’s tired, murmured tone and the way Louis snaps back at him. Louis hasn’t turned away from the window since they’ve gotten in the car, and Harry tries not to watch, but his eyes keep straying back to the way his hair falls over his forehead and the way his shoulders are hunched and tense.

They spend the rest of the ride in silence, with the occasional question from Liam about verifying their destination, or Niall asking when they’re going to be there. Harry misses that, because it’s just like how car rides with them used to be. Niall getting restless and Liam getting frustrated, always convinced they were going to get lost. In the past, before everything went to shit, Harry and Louis would sit next to each other, making up stories about the people in the cars they passed.

“Divorced,” Louis would say. “Mother of two.”

“How could you possibly know that?” And Harry knew that Louis really didn’t, but he liked the way Louis would light up and try to prove it to him, fighting against the mischievous grin that always ended up winning.

“I know everything, dear Harold,” Louis would tell him. “Hadn’t you noticed?”

And it’s so fucking funny now, because they didn’t know anything.

It’s another hour before they get to Boulder, Colorado, and Harry only knows that because Liam keeps muttering it to himself, glancing at the map he has perched on his lap because Louis is too much of a twat to help him. Liam refuses to use his phone or the GPS, because _this is a proper roadtrip, Zayn, stop asking me about it_ and he wants to do it the old-fashioned way. They do make it eventually though, and Harry’s out of the car before Liam pulls to a complete stop.

It’s beautiful out here, all rolling hills and mountains in the distance. It smells earthy and clean and Harry inhales the crisp, cold air, clearing out the smell of residual smoke that clings to Zayn and the interior of the car. Harry’s grateful that Liam thought to schedule ahead, because they don’t even have to wait long, and they’ve got a guide before a half hour passes.

The cliffs are higher than Harry imagined, leaving him a bit breathless. His heart beats like a drum in his chest, going too fast when they’re climbing up and Harry loses his chance to back out. He misses all the instructions the guide gives while they’re climbing, misses the precautions and the proper form because he just wants to jump, just wants to step off the edge and feel his stomach in his throat and just _fall_.

He stumbles a few times, the adrenaline making his feet too quick, making him lose his equilibrium as he fights back the panic building. It’s scary, this is terrifying, and he has his four best friends (and it’s so strange to call them that still, when one of them won’t even acknowledge his existence and the other three worry he’ll be dead in a week) behind him and Harry just wants to escape for a second. He can feel them hovering around him, even as they all climb behind their guide, her voice carrying to the very back where Louis is bringing up the rear.

“Are you scared?” Niall asks, when they get to the top and their guide tells them to strip. “Think I might piss myself, to be honest.”

Harry’s surprised into laughing, the sound echoing. He can barely see the water from up here, can barely even _think_ from this high up. The cliff juts out sharp and Harry’s the first to stumble towards the edge, his toes curling over the precipice and his arms shooting out to steady himself. He makes the mistake of peering down first, the view making him dizzy and uncoordinated.

There’s a voice behind him, the guide, and he’s sure he should know her name but he doesn’t care. She’s talking about first time nerves and there are plenty of people that end up not being able to do it, and Harry wants her to shut up. He’s done a lot things, good and fucked up, and he just wants to forget for a second, that’s all.

He backs away from the ledge, his steps measured and sure. The rest of them are quiet, and so Harry glances back just once. Louis meet his eyes immediately, almost like he can’t help it. They don’t say anything, but Louis’ eyes lose their blank look, and he looks tired, looks worried, and if there’s anything Harry wants to jump away from, it’s that.

_Are you scared?_ , Niall had asked, and Harry hadn’t bothered with answering. He thinks about it now as he gets a running start, his feet pounding into the dirt and his legs quivering with fear as he pushes them forward. Yes, Harry is scared and Harry is running and Harry is falling and he thinks he hears someone curse, but then he’s dropping past the edge and towards the water.

Harry thinks he might die from this, his body falling from the sky. He feels so helpless, the wind whipping his hair in his face and drying out his lips. He’s falling so _fast_ , so out of control, a scream being ripped from his throat before he realizes.

It’s ridiculous, how it feels like forever that he’s falling. It feels like his thoughts are flying out of his head and the adrenaline is rushing to replace them, making Harry dizzy and unsure and excited.

It feels good, and Harry smiles and laughs and screams because, God, Louis _hates_ him and he can’t stop drinking and the entire world is waiting for him to lose everything and he’s just jumped off a cliff. He can’t stop screaming, the water getting bluer, closer, and Harry tries to brace himself for the impact. It’s impossible though, because it’s freezing when he breaches the surface, water shooting up his nose and ice cold over his limbs.

His body cuts through the water, deep, and for a second Harry can’t breathe, everything rushing back to him at once. He opens his eyes and tries to find his bearings, the water pressing in on on all sides. He opens his mouth in a panic, the saltwater burning his lungs and making him choke. Harry only just manages to make his legs move, pushing up against the water and back towards the surface. His arms hurt and his legs hurt and his throat hurts and his eyes hurt but Harry keeps pushing, because he just jumped off a cliff, thank you very much, and like hell if he’s going to let himself _drown_ after all this.

He can’t stop coughing when he finally does break the surface, his arms shaking as he pushes himself out of the water and collapses on the ground. His chest hurts with how fast his heart is beating and it still feels like the water is weighing him down. He can barely catch his breath and his hands are shaking but Harry is _alive_. His fingers tremble when he runs them through his hair, jittery and riddled with nerves. Harry’s only ever felt like this when he’s needed a drink, when the world feels like it’s too much and he needs a reprieve. He feels like that now, like everything is crowding in on him at once, but he likes it. He breathes it in and closes his eyes and shakes.

“You okay, kid?” someone asks. “Do you need me to call for help?”

Harry laughs, he laughs, because he feels fine. He feels torn apart and his whole body aches and when he opens his eyes and squints he thinks he can see the boys peering down over the edge of the cliff. Harry tries to think of what he might look like from way up there, and he imagines the answer is Very Dead, and he laughs at that, too.

“I’m okay,” he manages to get out. “I’m okay.”

He’s okay right now.

\-----  
They drive during the night, Louis’ hands wrapped tight around the steering wheel and his eyes straight and forward. His hair is still damp, Harry can tell, and it hangs on his forehead. There’s a distant twitch in Harry’s fingers, something that makes him want to push the errant strands away, touch something that hasn’t been his for a long time now.

The adrenaline has already gone for the others, their bodies slumped over one another in the back seat. Liam had offered to take shotgun, but someone needs to stay awake with Louis and Liam’s eyes had been half-sluggish and dazed before they’d even reached the car. Harry hadn’t wanted to, still doesn’t want to, because Louis had hugged him after he’d jumped, this tight, shaky thing that made Harry’s breath stutter to a halt. It had been hesitant and jerky, and Louis had pulled back almost immediately, but he’d muttered, “We’re never doing that _again_ ,” and hadn’t looked at Harry since.

Harry presses his face against the window and looks out at the night. The lights twinkle from nearby towns, blurring together as Louis speeds past. He’s much less of a cautious driver than Liam, his foot heavy on the gas, the speedometer increasing in a way that makes Harry want to stick his head out of the window and feel the wind rushing past him. He figures it can’t hurt, so he does, sticks his head out and lets the cold air hit him.

Louis clears his throat and Harry rolls the window up.

“Food?” Louis asks. His voice is rough, hoarse, and his eyes flick over at Harry for just a second before he looks away again.

Harry nods, his own voice feeling stuck in his lungs. “Yeah,” he croaks out. He coughs to try and clear his throat, feeling out of place and vulnerable. “Food sounds good.”

Harry turns to look back out the window, his hands shaking a little in his lap. He feels like he should say something else, anything really, but Louis hands are still tight around the wheel, his breathing controlled. He looks too controlled, like he might snap, and there’s a part of Harry that wants to see that still, just to know if Louis still cares enough to fight with him. Harry doesn’t say anything though, because Louis passes him the map, and Harry tries to find somewhere to eat on his phone.

They end up at a twenty four hour diner, the sign outside flickering dim and the parking lot near deserted. Both Harry and Louis glance at the backseat when the car stops, take in the sight of Zayn and Liam and Niall all hunched over asleep.

Louis manages to hold Harry’s gaze for longer than a second this time when he says, “Just us then?” and Harry feels entirely too sober when they step out of the car, just the two of them.

The diner isn’t deserted, but there are only two other patrons in when the bell chimes on the door.

“Bit late for you to be out, isn’t it?” the lady at the door says, and Louis only has to smile at her once before she’s instantly charmed.

She leads them to a booth in the back, right next to the huge window. Louis automatically starts playing with the napkins, his fingers tearing little strips apart and leaving them shredded on the table. It jars Harry that Louis’ still kept the bad habit, still keeps his eyes on the little white strips that pile up while he sorts out his nerves.

Their food comes, hot and greasy, and Harry doesn’t realize how hungry he is until it’s set on the table. They share food almost without realizing, Harry snatching Louis’ fries and Louis breaking off a chunk of Harry’s burger. This they can do, because they don’t have to talk about it, because their fingers can tangle over the plate and maybe Harry will jolt a little with surprise, but they won’t talk about that either. This they can handle.

Harry orders three waters, because he’s not an idiot. He can feel his own fingers trembling, can feel the need for a drink pulsing just under his skin, but he doesn’t _want_ it. He doesn’t want to forget how he felt today, how he feels now, so he downs another water and avoids Louis’ eyes, because he doesn’t want to see the disappointment or the anger or whatever Louis is feeling. He fills himself up on water and tries to push the need away.

“Are you--”

“Don’t,” Harry warns him. “I’m fine.”

Louis takes a deep breath and stares at the empty glasses littering the table. “Do you need--”

“ _No_ ,” Harry says. “I don’t need a drink with every meal, as you put it before.”

Louis drops his gaze back down to his napkin bits, to the shreds covering his finished plate. “I’m sorry about that,” he murmurs softly. “About what I said.”

Harry shrugs and takes another gulp of his water, the ice cooling his throat and clearing his head. “Me too. About what I said.”

Louis’ mouth turns up, just a bit, something small but there all the same. “No, you’re not.”

Harry shrugs again. He’s not. He meant it.

They finish off Louis’ fries in silence, Harry taking all the crispy ones and Louis the soft and greasy ones. It’s just how they work, how they used to work, how they apparently still do. It’s not until after their waitress clears their table that Louis speaks again. He’s got his hands cupped around a hot coffee (which is blasphemous in itself, but Americans make shit tea, absolutely wretched tea) and his head down and he’s quiet when he says, “I just don’t understand it.”

“Understand what?” And Harry knows what Louis means, but there’s a part of him, small and spiteful and insistent, that wants to hear him say it. Wants to hear Louis call Harry out on it.

Louis squirms in his seat and Harry hides a twisted grin. It’s so unlike Louis to think before he says anything, to censor himself, especially around Harry. It’s nice to see him off-balance, and for once Harry feels like he has the upperhand, as short-lived as it might be.

“The--” Louis’ voice stutters to a halt, his mouth turned down into a grimace. “You know. The drinking.”

“You mean me being an alcoholic, right?” It’s mostly said to shock, to see that sharp inhalation Louis makes and the way he rips his napkin particularly hard.

“Is that what you think it is?” Louis asks him.

Harry can’t do anything but shrug. He drinks to forget, he drinks so he doesn’t have to face reality. Because he can’t sleep but the alcohol will eventually force him to pass out, and that’s better than nothing. “What would you call me then?”

“An idiot,” Louis says promptly. His teeth snap together after he says it, almost like he didn’t mean for the words to come out.

It startles a laugh out of Harry, something loud and sincere. It’s the first real laugh it’s felt like he’s had in days, in weeks, in months.

“That’s the most honest thing anyone’s said to me in a long time,” he admits, when his laughter turns into just a smile, making his cheeks hurt.

Louis doesn’t smile back, but he does nudge Harry’s foot with his own, light and acknowledging. “Sun’s coming up,” he says instead.

They both watch the sunrise, the orange tint lighting up the sky and casting a warm glow over the diner. Harry nudges Louis’ foot back, and Louis doesn’t look at him, but he stops shredding his napkin, and that’s something.

The boys are still asleep when they get back to the car. Louis drives a little more carefully this time around, his hands more relaxed at the wheel.

“Where are we going?” he asks.

Harry reads the list to him, the same one Zayn had printed out.

“Graceland,” they both decide, because it’s cheesy and everyone knows Harry has always wanted to see it firsthand.

Louis puts the address in the GPS, both of them making a silent promise not to tell Liam. Harry puts his feet up on the dashboard and Louis turns on the music low enough that it won’t wake anyone. They both notice Harry’s hands trembling in his lap, but neither of them mention it and that’s alright.

They don’t talk about anything at all, and that’s alright too.

\-----

They have to go through Kansas, Missouri, Illinois, and Kentucky to get to Graceland.

Kansas is boring.

“Kansas has the world’s largest ball of twine,” Zayn reads off his phone. “That sounds ace, yeah?”

It’s not ace. Zayn is fascinated though, so they suffer through it, all of them feeling small as they stare up at The World’s Largest Ball of Twine.

“What is twine, exactly?” Niall asks, and none of them really have an answer for that.

“It’s like straw yarn,” Liam tells them. “Have you really never seen twine before?”

“Obviously not,” Louis mutters. “Can’t say I care much, to be honest.”

They don’t let Zayn choose the stops after that.

In Missouri there’s Titanic: World’s Largest Museum Attraction.

Louis bumps Harry’s shoulder before he remembers that they’re not really speaking. “Do you remember when we tried to recreate that scene? With them looking out over the water?”

Harry does. When things had been easy and their relationship hadn’t been under the watchful eyes of everyone in the world. When Louis could put his hands around Harry’s waist and they were happy to just be silly, be _them_. “Yeah, I remember.”

“It seems like forever ago,” Louis says. He shoves his hands in his jacket and shrugs.

Harry bumps his shoulder back. “It was forever ago,” he tells him. “Feels like it anyway.”

They walk through the rest of the exhibit in silence, but Louis buys Harry a Titanic mug. “Because that’s what tourists do,” he says.

They drive through Illinois. Zayn doesn’t have an American license so “I’ll just have to drive very, very carefully. No worries,” he says, and no one bothers trying to placate Liam about it.

“That’s _illegal_ ,” he tries to tell them, but Zayn’s already hit the gas and none of the others feel like driving right now. So Liam sits up front, one hand clenched on the door handle and the other holding his map.

Zayn ignores him and sets up the GPS. “Driver’s Rules,” he says to Liam. “You can go back to that map when you’re driving again, mate.”

“Since when do we have Driver’s Rules?” Liam asks him. “No one told me anything about Driver’s Rules.”

They end up playing I Spy so Liam doesn’t sulk.

“I spy with me little eye, something red with wheels,” Niall tells them.

Harry glances out the window and snorts. “Only works if the thing you’re spying isn’t right beside us on the road.”

“I spy with my little eye,” Liam cuts in, “my five best mates in the entire world.”

Niall hides a laugh in Harry’s shoulder and Zayn rolls his eyes. Louis throws his shoe towards the front of the car and yells, “Don’t be such a damn sap, Liam,” and that feels more familiar than anything.

They stumble upon some swanky hotel in Kentucky.

(“Did you know they had nice hotels in Kentucky?” Zayn asks. “I didn’t know they had nice hotels in Kentucky.”

“I didn’t know they had hotels at all in Kentucky,” Niall adds, and the rest of them don’t say anything but they all agree.)

The girl at the reception desk obviously recognizes them, her eyes widening and flickering to Harry in particular. He’s the only one who’s stayed in the media, the only one who spiraled out of control so fully that the whole world can’t help but watch and stay updated on his every incriminating move.

“Listen,” Liam tells her. He smiles at her, ducks his head and bats his lashes and sometimes Harry forgets that Liam had to learn the tricks of the trade too. “We’re really not looking for any attention tonight, okay? Is there any way you could make sure no one knows we’re here?”

(They all pretend not to notice the extra fee tacked onto the bill the next morning. It doesn’t specify what it’s for, but they all know. No one says anything when Harry downs a scotch at the bar before they leave, because he’s just been charged an extra fee for being _himself_ , and that’s too much to deal with before noon.

Louis doesn’t talk to him at all in the car, not even the little nudges they’ve been exchanging. Harry can’t bring himself to care, not when his head is aching and his eyes feel heavy from the lack of sleep and he has to tap the same rhythm into his leg over and over again just to keep sane. Liam overcompensates with inane chatter, and they let him, because that’s how Liam is.)

The room has two beds.

Louis shuffles into the bathroom first, his arms full with toiletries and pajamas. “I’ll leave you lads to sort this, then,” he says, and for a moment Harry wishes he would just scream, just yell at Harry instead of all this passive aggressive bullshit.

That’s never been Louis though. That was always Harry’s thing, because he wears his heart on his sleeve, lets his emotions take control of his rational thinking and leaving himself vulnerable.

Niall clears his throat and says, “Me and Harry get the bed by the window,” and that leaves Liam and Zayn and Louis to squeeze into the other one, and that’s fine with Harry.

He doesn’t bother showering or brushing his teeth, just burrows under the covers and stares out the window. Even with the nice hotel, whatever town they’re in seems dead, the roads empty and deserted. It feels too quiet, and as the boys drop off to sleep one by one, Harry stares through the glass, and waits for his eyes to get tired.

When they finally get to Graceland, Harry’s been wearing the same clothes for a whole day and a half and his hair feels greasy and heavy.

“Why are we here again?” Zayn asks, when they step into the mansion and it’s like being transported back in time. “Bit creepy, innit?”

It is a little creepy. Everything is still exactly the same, dusted off and polished but still there from years and years ago. The rooms are filled with plaques and chairs and oddities from Elvis but it still feels empty. Like the mansion is just waiting for its owner to come back.

“No creepier than a giant ball of yarn,” Louis murmurs.

“ _Twine_ ,” Liam says. “It was twine.”

There’s an audio-guided tour that takes you to through the bedroom. Past immaculate sheets with pressed corners. Closets full of starched shirts and pants and glitter, shelves filled with shoes and sunglasses and belts. There are photographs on the wall, mostly of people Harry’s never seen, strangers pasting on smiles for the camera.

The music room takes Harry’s breath away. There are guitars lined up along the wall, a piano in the corner of the room. There are records hung up, shiny, black vinyls that look brand new.

The Jungle Room is the main attraction, the patterns of the furniture clashing with each other, the plants stood all around the room, the lush green carpet that covers the floor and ceiling. There’s a guitar sitting on one of the armchairs, almost like it was forgotten, like someone was going to come back in any second and finish the final bars to a song.

“He recorded his last two albums in here,” Harry reads off the plaque in the middle of the room. “Bit like his version of our bungalow, right?”

“Bit like that,” Liam agrees. He peers over Harry’s shoulder and reads along. “Do you think he ever got lonely? Recording by himself in here?”

Harry shrugs, his fingers tracing over the words. “S’pose not everyone can be in a boyband.”

“Their loss, then,” Liam says.

The trophy building is even more insane. Gold and platinum records are hung up on the wall, all the relics of Elvis’s success. There are a ton of them, record after record and hit after hit. Posters from his movies are plastered to the wall, huge pictures with greasy, coiffed hair and tight, belted outfits.

“Christ,” Niall breathes out. “Son of a bitch did it all.”

“Including dying during a shit,” Louis whispers, but Louis has never been quiet a day in his life and Harry has to bite his lip to keep from laughing at the dirty looks Louis gets from the people around them. “Well, he _did_.”

The Meditation Garden might be the most surreal part of the tour. There are markers for all the dead there, Elvis and his family. The atmosphere changes a little, all of them going a little reverent in the presence of the buried. Harry stuffs his hands into the pocket of the hoodie he nicked from Zayn’s bag and follows the crowd.

People linger the most by Elvis’ grave, obviously. There are flowers there, some fresh and some wilted. There are smudged letters, handwritten outpourings of love and respect. Some people have left T-Shirts, left keychains from the gift shop and photos and records propped up. There are some books stuck in between too, with conspiracy theories that wonder if Elvis is still alive and biographies and old newspaper clippings.

“People still speculate about his life even though he’s dead,” Harry says. It’s a terrifying thought, to still be under the observation glass even in death. To still have people picking you apart and not bothering to put you back together. “Followed him to the grave.”

And that’s sobering. To try to drink yourself stupid and cloud your mind with drugs only to have it be for nothing after death. Only to have a shrine built around your personal life, opened up for strangers to see the most intimate parts of you, see inside the life you tried to make private.

(Harry stays behind when the others start the walk back towards the car. He pulls out one of the mini-bottles he snuck from one of their hotels and shoves it between a faded photograph and an old newspaper article. It’s cheesy and it’s stupid but Harry figures _someone_ should have it, even if it can’t be him right now.)

The thoughts stay with him as they drive away, as Zayn turns up the radio and they’re doing one of those sleazy gossip segments. Harry hears his own name thrown around, hears them say he’s ruined any career he could have had. He hears them talk about his life as if they _know_ him, as if they could possibly deal with the pressure of the entire world watching you and waiting for you to fuck it up then swooping down like vultures when you finally do.

The thoughts stay with him when he hears the speculation about the rest of the boys showing up, when complete strangers wonder if this is Harry’s intervention, if it’s a last ditch effort to _save_ him.

“For fuck’s sake, Zayn,” Louis says. “Turn that shit off.”

It takes Zayn a second to respond, his hand hovering over the knob and his eyes barely concentrating on the road.

“ _Zayn_ ,” Louis snaps. “Turn it off.”

It’s Liam who does, pushing the knob with extra force and staring resolutely out his window.

The thoughts stay with Harry as they drive to some cheap motel in silence, when everyone claims they want an early night so they can get back on the road well-rested tomorrow. The thoughts _haunt_ him in the dark when he can’t sleep, when every sound is too loud and the bed feels uncomfortable under him, the sheets scratchy against his skin and the exhaustion too heavy on his shoulders, spreading like a weight over his chest and making it hard to breathe.

Harry escapes to the outdoor hallway, empty and quiet. He tucks his legs up into one of the cheap, plastic chairs and huddles into his jumper to fight off the chilly night air.

It doesn’t take long for their motel door to open, Niall’s head peeking out past the doorway. “Okay, Harry?” he asks.

Harry nods, and he can’t help the fondness that wells up in his chest when Niall steps hesitantly out into the hallway. “You want some company?”

“Sure, Nialler.”

Niall pulls up another plastic chair and drags it over.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Harry asks. “Did I wake you up?”

“Nah, just a little restless.” Niall runs a hand through his hair and shrugs. “Sorry about earlier.”

Harry hunches into himself a bit more and fixes his gaze on the street. “Were they finally right about something?” he asks idly, focusing on keeping his tone level. “Is this an intervention?”

“It’s a proper roadtrip, isn’t that what Liam said?” Niall slumps in his seat and puts his feet up on the railing. “Saint Liam Payne wouldn’t lie to you.”

Harry takes the answer at face value, because Liam wouldn’t, no, but Niall wouldn’t either. “Do you think I need one?” he asks, elaborating at Niall’s raised eyebrows. “An intervention. D’you think I’ll end up dead with my house turned into a tourist attraction?”

Niall snorts, his tone more amused than worried. “No offense, mate, but I don’t think you’ll ever be as famous as Elvis.”

Niall’s laugh has always been infectious, and Harry can’t help but join him, his own a bit muted, but still there, still real. “Glad you think so highly of me.”

Harry feels himself getting tired the longer they sit out there, his eyes getting heavy and his vision crossing. “Think I’m ready for bed,” he manages through a yawn. “Are you coming?”

“Nah, think I’ll sit out here for a bit,” Niall tells him. He’s got a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and one of Liam’s hoodies on. “Get away from all their snoring for a while.”

Harry ruffles his hair and walks back to their room. “Hey, Harry?” he hears before he unlocks the door, his hand hovering over the handle. “You’ll be okay, you know.”

Niall sounds so sure, his eyes blue and bright under the hall lights, his face open and warm. Harry thinks that out of all of them, Niall might understand things the most. He smiles at Harry and Harry thinks _maybe_. Maybe.

“Night, Nialler,” Harry says.

He steps into the dark room and squeezes in next to Zayn on the small bed. Sleep doesn’t come easy, but it does come.

\-----

They make the unanimous decision to go to Disney World the next morning over black coffee and burnt toast.

Actually, Liam makes the decision, his voice hesitant when he points to it on the list. It takes one look at his face before they all agree, and Liam sits back in his seat, satisfied.

Liam volunteers to drive, his mouth pulled up into a grin that Harry hasn’t seen much on this trip. They roll all the windows down, the weather uncharacteristically mild and pleasant.

“Do we have to talk to those huge stuffed animals?” Zayn asks, scrolling through the Disney website on his phone. “Like those giant mice?”

“You know there are people in those costumes, right?” Louis asks him. “They’re not actually giant mice.”

Zayn glares at him but Harry sees his cheeks pink through the rearview mirror. “I _know_ that. Doesn’t change the fact that they look like giant mice.”

Louis snorts and throws himself across the seat at Zayn, nudging sharp elbows and digging his fingers into Zayn’s ribs. Niall sits in the middle, unaffected as he flips through some magazine he picked up in the motel lobby and lets the boys scrapple over him, ducking when one of Zayn’s hands come flying out.

“You can’t do that while I’m driving,” Liam says, the car swerving a bit when Louis kicks his leg out and knocks Liam in the shoulder. “I’m on a roadtrip with children.”

“Oi! I resent that,” Louis says, but his beanie is askew and his face is red and he’s smiling like an idiot. “I’m the eldest, need I remind you?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Zayn says. “Because it’s so easy to forget.” He’s laughing though, that crinkly-eyed one that changes his whole face.

Liam turns up the music to drown them out, something poppy and familiar coming through the speakers. They all sing along, because being in a boyband really changes your taste in music, and Harry puts his feet up and closes his eyes. Their voices still mesh together, all of them falling into harmony with one another. Liam starts beatboxing along with the bass of the song, his fingers tapping against the wheel. With his eyes closed, Harry can almost imagine they’re back in the studio, their voices balancing out each other on the track.

It’s a scary thought, but a nice one.

They drive through Georgia.

Louis takes to calling them Georgia peaches the entire time they’re in the state. He even whispers, “You’re my favorite peach,” to Harry when they’re buying junk food in some rest stop, his hip bumping Harry’s hesitantly. It’s only a little bit awkward, the way Harry drops the gum he’s holding in response. The way Louis puts it back and picks out a new pack. “Okay?” he asks.

And Harry nods and says, “Okay,” because he’s trying to be and that’s okay too.

Harry likes Georgia. The girls have cute accents and when they stop for gas, one of them yells out, “Y’all look familiar!” and Harry doesn’t mind taking pictures with them. They’re nice and they say they’ll always be fans and hey, maybe y’all should make another album, and yeah, Harry likes Georgia.

It’s dark when they finally get to Florida, all their legs cramped and eyes droopy with sleep. The city is illuminated, nightclubs and streets just opening and people littering the sidewalks.

The car is quiet, Zayn having fallen asleep hours ago. Niall and Louis are watching a movie on Louis’ phone, both of them crowded close together and sharing the headphones. Liam’s humming along to something low on the radio, his head bobbing to the beat and his fingers bopping along too. He navigates through the busy streets with ease because of the GPS, having finally thrown the map away two hours into Georgia.

They check into their hotel, giving half-hearted smiles to the people who do a double-take, sleepy-eyed and waving as they head up to their room. Zayn collapses on the bed, his bags thumping on the floor and his head smashed into the pillows.

“Oi,” Niall tells him, poking him in the ribs and watching him squirm. “You’re gonna have to share that bed, you know.”

Harry and Louis brush their teeth in the bathroom together, side by side. Their eyes meet in the mirror, and Louis makes a face that Harry returns. They used to always share the bathroom while they were on tour, one of them at the sink while the other was in the shower, talking about the weather or their show or the movie they’d watched the night before.

Harry watches Louis and Louis watches Harry and neither of them realize they’ve been brushing their teeth for ten minutes now. Harry spits quickly and wipes his mouth, his face burning a bit and his eyes trained on the floor.

“Okay?” Louis asks.

And Harry is for now, he _is_ , but Louis is so close and Louis doesn’t hate him and Louis’ mouth looks so red under these lights and---

“Think I just need a moment, yeah,” Harry says, and Louis pulls back, jerky.

“Oh.” One side of his mouth pulls down and Harry grips at the edge of the sink until it hurts, until his knuckles go white with it. “Okay. I’ll um. I’ll see you in the morning, yeah?” And he darts in quick, leaning in closer until Harry’s heart feels like it might beat out of his chest. “Night, Harry,” Louis says, and he kisses Harry’s cheek before he leaves the bathroom, the door snicking shut behind him.

Harry lets out a tremulous breath and forces himself to let go of the sink, wincing as his fingers protest. He stares at himself in the mirror, his face flushed, his eyes wide. His cheek feels hot where Louis’ mouth touched, and he raises a shaky hand to his face. It’s stupid, he feels stupid, and his throat is tight and chest hurts and they’ve done this before.

They’ve done this before and it all went to hell.

Harry washes his face with cold water and lets it clear his head. He can’t do this, he can’t. He’s not even managed to get over Louis the first time, and he can’t imagine having to do it again, because he would have to do it, because they’re Louis and Harry and they’re no good for each other in the end.

He repeats that to himself in the mirror, over and over again until his mouth feels dry.

He feels the urge to forget creeping into him, the familiar urge to feel the burn in the back of his throat and the glass in his hand. And this is why he can’t deal with Louis, because everything is still so fucked up, and he feels so fucked up, and god, he really wants a fucking drink.

Someone knocks on the door, startling him and forcing him to look away from the mirror. “You almost done in there, mate?” Niall asks.

Harry manages to duck out of the bathroom without too many questions from Niall, sliding past him quick and keeping his head down. Louis and Liam are in one bed, Liam flipping through a Disney brochure and Louis playing around with his phone. He looks up when Harry walks out, and Harry ignores his gaze, sliding into the other bed where Zayn is still asleep.

He feels Louis’ eyes on him for awhile, until Niall comes back and turns out the light but keeps the television on. Harry falls asleep to reruns of _Friends_ and thoughts of Louis, always, always Louis.

\-----

They decide on Magic Kingdom.

Liam’s face looks like it might hurt with how wide he’s grinning, the way his eyes crinkle up when he turns to stare at the rest of them. “What do you guys want to do first?”

Harry shakes his head and steers him toward the first gift shop they run into. “We have to get you some proper headgear first.”

He buys Liam Mickey Mouse ears, positions them on top his head and smiles. “Now you’re ready.”

He buys himself a matching pair of Minnie ones, and ducks his head when Louis puts them on him, his fingers lingering in his hair.

“Now you’re ready, too,” Louis says.

Harry steps backs and puts on a smile. “Now we’re all ready.” He turns to Liam, taking in the way his feet bounce impatiently, the way his eyes keep flitting out of the giftshop. “Where to, Li?”

First there are the teacups, all of them crammed into one, their legs intertwined and their fingers gripping the edges. They do the teacups twice, spinning around ‘til they’re dizzy, staggering out and laughing breathlessly, holding onto each other until they get their balance back.

There’s Space Mountain, which they have to coax Niall into.

“Why does it have to be so dark?” he asks, and he only lets himself be guided in when Zayn grabs his hand and promises to not let go.

That one is actually pretty cool, and it’s worth the wait when they see the pictures after. Harry cracks a smile at their faces, the way Niall peers hesitantly over the edge of the seat he’s strapped into, the way his hand is clearly still gripping Zayn’s. Liam looks oblivious to them all, his face turned up towards the lights, his mouth stretched into a stupid grin. Louis is looking at Harry and that.

Well.

Harry buys the picture, just to have the memory.

‘It’s a Small World’ scares him a bit, the plastered on smiles and the wide, creepy eyes and the synchronized movement. Harry doesn’t realize that he’s scooting closer to Louis until he feels him right up close. Louis smiles, but it’s guarded and cautious and it’s so unlike him that Harry wants it gone, instinctually knows that it doesn’t belong.

“Bit creepy,” he says. “They’re just staring at us.”

“You should be used to that by now,” Louis tells him, and Harry listens for any bitterness or spite or cruelty, but there isn’t any. Louis just sounds sincere. “At least they don’t have cameras, right?”

Harry allows himself a small smile at that. “Yeah, I suppose. They don’t spread rumors, either.”

“Are they rumors, then?” Louis says, and Harry jerks his head around from where he was staring. “What they say about you?”

“Well, you wouldn’t know, would you?” Harry snaps. Liam turns around at his tone, his eyebrows furrowing and his face concerned. “Sorry,” he mutters. “Fuck, sorry, I didn’t mean to say that.”

“Yes, you did,” Louis tells him quietly. “You always mean everything you say.”

Harry huffs and turns away. “Do we have to do this now?”

“Well, when would you rather--”

“ _Louis_.”

Louis’ mouth tightens, turns down at the corners, but he nods and Harry can breathe again.

They pose with Mickey and Minnie, with Alice in Wonderland and the Disney Princesses. They pose with fans, with little girls and little boys and their parents. They sign autographs, giving genuine smiles when people tell them they miss their music.

“Nothing’s set in stone, babe,” Zayn says to one of the girls, signing a copy of their first CD.

They watch the castle light up, with all the characters on stage and parading around the lights. Liam grabs him when the characters come dancing off the stage, spinning him around to the beat of the cheesy music and Harry laughs, because he’s twenty one years old and he’s in Disney World and he’s dancing with one of his best friends to the tune of Under the Sea. Liam twirls him and Harry goes along with it, stumbling over his own feet but trying to stick to the rhythm.

Zayn and Niall join in too, Zayn pretending he has any idea how to ballroom dance and Niall just going along with it. Harry can hear Niall’s laughter even as they move away, can see the smile on Zayn’s face when Niall tries to dip him.

Liam leads them over to where Louis’ standing. He looks stiff and awkward, but he’s watching them with a fond smile on his face, and Harry’s resolves crumbles a bit at the edges.

“Dance with me,” he says, reaching out and grabbing Louis’ hand. Louis looks surprised, but he allows himself to be lead back into the crowd. Harry tries to dance like Liam did, but he’s always had two left feet and Louis has never had any sort of rhythm. They probably look ridiculous, tense and uncertain, but Harry’s on a roadtrip with his four best mates and Louis is right here and so Harry doesn’t care. He twirls Louis around and dips him low, smiling at the surprise on his face.

They’re breathless by the end of it, a little sweaty and their hearts pounding too fast and too loud. Louis looks at him like he used to and even in the fading light, Harry _knows_.

He loosens his hold on Louis, just a little, not all the way, and gestures towards the sky. “The fireworks are starting.”

There’s blue and green and red and yellow and pink, bursting across the sky and sending streaks of light flashing across their faces. Harry and Louis crane their necks and watch them all explode, watch until the last spark fades and the crowd starts to thin.

Louis leans his head on Harry’s shoulder and Harry lets him, trying to relax. “I didn’t mean to snap at you,” Harry murmurs. “I’m not angry with you.”

Louis snorts but doesn’t move his head, keeps his face tilted down. “Of course you’re angry with me,” he says. “I’m angry with you, too.”

“So we’re both angry?”

“We’re both angry,” Louis agrees.

Harry watches Zayn jump on Liam’s back, watches as he tries to knock off Liam’s Mickey Mouse ears and put them on his own head. “And that’s okay?”

Louis shrugs. “It’s us.”

Niall yells for them to hurry up. They catch the monorail back to their car, and Harry slides next to Liam, listening to him chatter away about meeting Peter Pan and eating too much cotton candy and _oh my god, I can’t believe I found a mini Woody doll_. Harry hums in all the right places, lets the vibrations of Liam’s voice lull him into a doze until they get back to the car. Louis nudges him when they get to their stop, holding his hand out and helping Harry up.

“Still angry?” Harry asks him, his eyes heavy and his limbs like dead weight.

Louis huffs out a laugh, mocking but gentle, and bears most of Harry’s weight. “Still angry. You?”

“Still angry.”

“Good lad.”

\-----

They all pretend to have Southern accents as they travel up north, going back through Georgia and through the Carolinas.

Louis makes Niall pretend to have an accent when they stop for food, his mouth tripping over the words and stuttering out his order.

Zayn says bless after every sentence, so much so that after awhile even Liam gets fed up with it, huffing under his breath and wrinkling his nose every time he hears it.

They discover real Southern Fried Chicken at some place called _Sylvia’s_ , and Niall eats so much he feels sick, grumbling about his stomach and turning paler and greener with every mile. Liam offers to rub his tummy, but his lips twitch at the end, and so Niall glares and goes to sleep.

No one warns Harry about the sweet tea, and how it’s actually so sweet it feels like it melts his teeth, makes his molars hurt from all the sugar. It goes straight to his head, making him dizzy with energy and his skin feels like it’s buzzing. After his second bottle of the stuff he rolls his window down and screams, “Howdy, y’all!” to the people in the next car over.

“I think that’s only a thing in Texas,” Zayn tells him, and Harry laughs so hard his face turns red.

South Carolina brings them to Myrtle Beach, and the water is freezing at their ankles and there’s no sun out but Harry just pulls his jacket closer and wades deeper into the water.

“You’re insecure,” Liam sings, “don’t know what for.”

Louis groans and shoves him into the sand. “Absolutely not. This isn’t even the same beach.”

“It’s still a beach,” Liam protests, but they all throw themselves on top of him and he can barely breathe, much less sing.

Harry gets sand in his pants and socks and shoes and hair. They’re wet and shivering and cold when they wander into some beach-side restaurant and order a few cups of hot chocolate. They decide to spend the day here, staring out the windows at the grey sky and watching the water wash up against the sand.

They get a hotel just because they can, piled up in one bed and watching movies. Louis insists on The Notebook at one point, for ‘old times sake, you twats,’ and Harry pretends not to notice when Louis wipes his face on Harry’s shirt and it feels a bit damp after.

“This is a stupid movie,” Louis mumbles into the fabric of his t-shirt and Harry just hums because they all know Louis has seen this movie a thousand times; he used to pack it with them on tour and watch it on the nights he was too wired to sleep.

They eat dinner on the boardwalk, wrapped up in thick jumpers and scarves and watching the waves knock against the pier. Their waitress gives them free dessert, this apple crumbly thing that sticks to their fingers and faces and on their clothes. She just smiles when Harry flashes her a dirty grin out of habit, winks back at him and refills his water.

She asks them where they’re headed and suddenly they realize they have no idea.

Harry pulls out the list but Niall says, “Washington, D.C.” He nods to himself and looks around the table. “I want to meet the President.”

And so they all nod back and plan to leave in the morning.

They all clamor over each other in the bed that night, huddling together for warmth and comfort and familiarity. Harry’s on the edge of consciousness when he hears Liam singing under his breath.

“Shut the fuck up, Li,” he croaks out, his arm reaching out and swatting the nearest body.

“You hit _me_ ,” Zayn whines.

“Go to sleep, you twats,” Niall mutters.

And instead of staring into the darkness for hours until the sun comes up, Harry falls asleep. It’s not easy or peaceful, but it’s sleep and it’ll do.

\-----

Getting into Washington, D.C. is nearly impossible. The traffic is gridlocked, with cars backed up on every street and people spilling out from the sidewalks and metro stations. Zayn gives up driving after twenty minutes of stop-and-go, waiting until they’re stuck at a red before he puts the car in park and throws himself into the backseat and forces Louis into driving.

Meeting the President _is_ impossible. They use what little pull they have left and manage to get a tour of the White House on short notice instead. There are people everywhere, following their own tour guides and bumping into each other when the groups get backed up. Niall sticks close to Harry, his eyes drawn to the huge, well-furnished rooms and the formal pictures that line the walls.

“Obama sits _here_ ,” Niall whispers reverently, his fingers trailing along the back of the chair behind the desk. “I am touching a chair that Barack Obama has also touched.”

Louis raises his eyebrows and snorts. “You may never wash that hand again, eh, mate?” It’s funny until Liam elbows him in his side and Louis curses.

They go overboard in the gift shop. Niall buys this obnoxious t-shirt, the American flag plastered across the front. He buys a hat to match it, slipping it onto his head almost as soon as he pays. “What do you think, lads?”

“Very patriotic,” Zayn tells him seriously, and he only lets his lips twitch once Niall turns away. “Are we going to have to walk around with him looking like that?” he mutters, glancing over to make sure Niall can’t hear.

“ _Yes_ ,” Liam says. “Maybe we should get something, too.”

Harry picks out a necklace. It has an eagle dangling from the end, cheesy and overly American and silly. “Put it on me?” he asks, and Louis’ fingers feel abnormally warm against his skin, trailing across Harry’s neck with the slightest and gentlest touch. “Are you going to get something?”

Louis taps at the eagle on the necklace, his eyes light with humor. “Quite fond of this necklace, actually.”

“We’d be matching,” Harry says dumbly. He tries not to think about Louis stuck right up against his back, the way his front molds against Harry and how his voice is so _close_.

He can feel Louis nod, his hair tickling Harry’s neck when he moves. “We would be. Is that alright? Be like old times.”

Old times. When they had matching bracelets and matching plushies and matching rainboots and matching blankets. When they were stuck together like glue but still needed a constant reminder of the other, a constant way of knowing they were still Harry and Louis, still just themselves under the make-up and stripes and blazers and screams. Old times when Harry didn’t think he’d ever take that bracelet off because he’d found his place, his home, and he never wanted to forget it. Old times when Louis loved him and he loved Louis and everything felt so much simpler.

“You can say no,” Louis murmurs, and it jolts Harry from his thoughts. “We don’t have to.”

Harry doesn’t have any of those things anymore. He’d thrown the bracelet away, ripped it from his wrist one night when he couldn’t stand the sight of it anymore. The boots had been long lost, left in a hotel room somewhere on the other side of the world. The blanket had been dumped, stuffed in the trash because it smelled too much like Louis, reminded Harry of things he didn’t have anymore. He’d given the plush bear to his mum when he moved out of their flat, his fingers gripping it so tight she’d almost had to pry it out of his hands.

“No, we can,” he says. His voice comes out shaky and unsure, but Harry swallows it down. “I want to.”

And Harry knows Louis will leave after this trip, will fly back to England and leave Harry here. So Harry wants this, wants something to hold on to so that even the strongest alcohol won’t make him forget this.

And so Louis gets the necklace and lets Harry clasp it around his neck. It’s a light thing, barely any weight, but for some reason, it hangs against Harry’s chest like a heavy stone, bearing down on him and making it hard to catch his breath.

They walk around the Capitol building, take pictures in front of statues of men on horses and tall white buildings that none of them recognize. The wind starts picking up around noon, so all the pictures are of them clinging to each other and trying to keep their hair out of their eyes.

“What’s the tall pointy thing?” Zayn asks. He squints up at it, his nose all wrinkled up and his eyes confused. “America is weird.”

Niall reads through the travel book he bought on the way in, flipping through the pages with practiced ease. “The Washington Monument,” he reads. “Built to commemorate George Washington.”

“Bit of a shit tribute if you ask me,” Zayn tells them. “I’d be all out of sorts if this was _my_ monument.”

“As if anyone would ever build you a monument,” Louis says. He ducks when Zayn snatches the travel book and throws it at him, sticking his tongue out when Liam glares at them until they fetch it back for Niall. “Well, they _wouldn’t_.”

They walk through Chinatown for lunch and eat too much lo mein and orange chicken. Zayn teaches Harry how to use the chopsticks, laughing when the noodles keep falling off right before he gets them in his mouth.

“’s not funny,” he mumbles around a mouthful, his hands sticky from the sauce. “I’m starving.”

“You look it,” Zayn tells him. “You need to fatten up. You’re all skin and bones.” He pinches the skin on Harry’s side, not relenting even when Harry drops his food and makes too much noise laughing. He keeps it up until Harry scoots closer to Liam.

“Can’t take you lot anywhere,” Liam murmurs into his hair. He smells spicy and sweet, like the food on his plate, and Harry burrows into his side and sighs when Liam puts his arm around his shoulders. “You should eat,” Liam says.

Harry gives up on his chopsticks and uses his fork instead. He gets a refill of soda, some brand he’s never heard of that burns the back of his throat when he swallows. It’s not the burn he’s used to, maybe not the one he wants, but he only has a second to dwell on it before Niall says something that makes Liam laugh and Harry is distracted by the vibrations in his chest.

They get gelato from a little shop down the street. It’s rich and creamy and makes Harry feel a bit sick after all the food they’ve eaten. They all shove onto a bench in front the place, legs all tangled together and elbows knocking.

“I’d like to be President one day,” Niall says. He’s got orange sherbet on his face and none of them are nice enough to point it out.

“Don’t think that’s how it works,” Liam tells him. He sounds apologetic though, like he’s truly sorry Niall can’t suddenly rule a country of which he’s not even a citizen. “I’m sure you’d be a great one though.”

Niall’s mouth turns down at the corners for only a second, but they all see it. “Still be nice though.”

“I’d like to be an astronaut,” Zayn says. They all know he’d be shit at it, but it makes Niall smile and so it’s fine.

Liam rubs his chin and thinks for a moment. “I still think I’d like to be a fireman,” he tells them.

“Saint Liam Payne,” they all say, and Harry pokes Liam’s cheek when it turns red.

“I want to be sailor,” Louis says. “Just me and the sea for miles and miles.”

Zayn rolls his eyes and throws a napkin at Louis. “You’re only saying that so you’d get to wear your stupid stripes again.”

“What about you, Harry?” Niall asks. “What would you like to be?”

Harry only ever wanted to be famous. He wanted to be on stage singing and smiling and making people happy. He’d wanted to have people screaming his name. He wanted to be able to look out into the crowd and know they were there for him.

But Harry’s had all that, and it’s not what he wants anymore. Sometimes he wonders if he ever really wanted any of that. If he deserved it. If maybe there was a reason it all ended.

“Happy,” he says, because that’s the only thing he really wants to be anymore. Besides the ability to forget, besides being able to walk around LA without hearing the bitter, snide whispers and having cameras flash in his face. He’d like to be able to go back in time, sometimes, make it so he never went on X-Factor and gotten thrown into a band. Sometimes he thinks he’d like to have never met Louis, never known how gentle and loving he could be so the memories of how cruel they could both be don’t hurt so much.

But wanting happiness is a constant. More than wanting the alcohol thrumming through his veins or the gossipping to stop. More than anything, Harry thinks, he’d just like to be happy.

They finish their ice cream in silence, but as they walk back to their hotel, they put Harry in the middle, their arms all linked together as they take up too much of the sidewalk.

It’s nice.

\------

They end up in New York on a Friday morning, bleary-eyed from driving through the night and heavy with the weight of too much fast food.

New York is too much and not enough at the same time.

There are a lot of people crammed on the sidewalks and in cars and shoved inside the buildings that line the streets. And the buildings themselves, they climb towards the sky, reaching and reaching until Harry feels like he has to squint to see the tops. The cars are jammed in next to each other, horns blaring and the gas accelerating and the brakes being pushed at the last second before the drivers stick their heads out the window and yell.

New York is too much.

The eagle at the bottom of Harry’s necklace is warm from where his fingers keep running over the bumps and grooves of it. It will probably turn his neck green in a few days, but he won’t take it off until he absolutely has to, and maybe not even then. His eyes are probably burning a brand in Louis’ head while they’re in the car. Harry balls his hands up into fists to keep from touching, because Louis’ isn’t his, hasn’t been, maybe never even was, and them having something that _matches_ won’t change that. He needs a distraction to keep from wanting to touch.

New York is not enough.

They spend Friday shuffling down the dirty streets. They’ve been to New York a million times, it seems, scrambling from interview to interview and being buckled into big, black cars and chased after by screaming girls. They’ve seen Times Square late at night driving back from concerts, from windows up high, trapped in a room with probing questions and too high expectations. They’ve been here at Christmas and seen all the lights, seen all the storefronts up decorated to bring in the most customers.

They’ve never seen New York like this though. Harry’s never seen New York like this.

They walk instead of getting a cab or having some conspicuous car drive them from destination to destination. It’s especially cold today, so they stop at the Starbucks on the corner by their hotel, the heat seeping into their hands as they blend seamlessly into the crowd.

New York as a tourist is an experience.

Harry has to keep his head up to avoid bumping into people, has to move in close to whoever is next to him to keep out of the way. His cup gets jostled a few times, the hot coffee spilling out onto his fingers and turning the skin red. He only drinks when they’re stuck at crosswalks, waiting for the light to change or the traffic to slow down (which it doesn’t, ever).

He’d never noticed all the little shops and kiosks before. When they came as a group, only the big stores had been visible, the department stores that had four levels and too many numbers in the price tags.

Niall makes them try churros, sweet and crunchy and doughy. The sugar sticks in the corners of Harry’s mouth and under his nails, leaving him sticky. They’re only a dollar for two, so he skips back to get more before they get too far down the block, the bills crumpled and warm from staying in his pockets for so long.

There’s a man dressed like Spider-Man near Rockefeller Plaza, and Liam begs for a picture, his eyes going up into his signature crinkly-eyed smile when Spider-Man pulls him in and poses. Liam just _has_ to find a Spider-Man shirt after that, and they duck their heads into a few stores until he finds one he actually likes. He clutches the bag in a death grip and Harry idly wonders if he’ll ever wear another shirt again.

(The answer is yes, but it’s only reluctantly that Liam takes it off for the rest of the trip, and only when the other boys beg him to because _for God’s sake, Liam, you’re a grown man_. Well, Louis begs him. The others don’t mind. Much.)

They get recognized in Times Square, a group of girls rushing up to them with too-wide smiles and loud pleas for an autograph. Harry almost can’t believe they still have fans, because they haven’t been gone for long at all but it feels like everyone should know how exhausted they were when they ended it, how stretched thin they felt.

Sometimes Harry thinks that he was the only one that couldn’t handle it. But Zayn smokes twice as much now just to keep his hands still and Liam just _has_ to please everyone, can’t handle it if he doesn’t. Niall’s had to leave the safety of his own mind, had to become more aware and more alert and less like himself. And Louis, well, Louis _left_. Louis went back to London and it feels like he went into hiding or maybe he was just hiding from what he left behind.

They go ice-skating in Rockefeller Center, bundled up in their coats and scarves and Harry finds a beanie shoved in the bottom of his bag. Of course Zayn’s complete shit at it, and they shouldn’t find the way he falls on his arse so funny, but they do.

“This is absolutely ridiculous,” Zayn whines, so Harry links arms with him and doesn’t let him fall anymore. Zayn never says thank you but he grips Harry’s arm like a vise and that’s enough.

Louis is the best one out of them, his balance stable as he skates literal circles around all of them. He touches a hand to Harry’s back when he passes him once, and Harry feels it like it’s burning through his coat for hours after. He uses Zayn as a distraction, showing him how to slide his skates across the ice and keeping his face straight when Zayn gets so frustrated he nearly turns red with it.

They eat cheesecake for dinner, sitting outside and watching their breath when they talk. Louis sits next to Harry and presses a knee against his. Harry doesn’t know if he presses back, can only concentrate on chewing and swallowing, but he knows his resolve is slipping and crumbling and every press from Louis just puts more cracks in it. He doesn’t know where this is heading (he only knows it’s heading somewhere he doesn’t want to go, somewhere that requires a drink in his hand and the fuzzy feeling in his head, something that makes him forget about their past and the way they broke each other so thoroughly before), but Louis is a warm constant next to him, their sides matched up together while they eat.

It starts snowing as they walk down Fifth Avenue, these huge snowflakes that are a bit uncommon for mid-February but not surprising considering the low temperatures and the grey skies. Niall sticks his tongue out and tries to count how many snowflakes he catches, but he’s stupid and it’s impossible but none of them tell him that. His cheeks are flushed red and his eyes are bright from the cold and good humor and Harry swallows against the fondness that overwhelms him in that moment.

Their hotel is really nice, flashy and well-lit and so they all decide to splurge and get their own rooms. They manage to get the same floors, because it’s past holiday season and their faces are still familiar enough to pull a few strings.

Louis catches Harry before he goes into his room, his bag heavy on his shoulder and digging deep into his skin.

“Can we talk?” he asks. His face looks pale in the hallway, his eyes bruised and tired. “I just--we haven’t really had a chance to talk, have we?”

Harry shrugs and hikes his bag up. The strap digs in even more, and the pain distracts him from the rapid _pitter patter_ of his heart, from the white noise in his head. “Not much to talk about, is there?”

Louis blinks. His eyes glance at Harry’s white-knuckled grip on his bag, his throat when he swallows too heavily. “I don’t know. I mean. We haven’t talked about us, really.”

“Us?” Harry repeats. “What about us is there to talk about?” It feels like everything he’s tried to drink away comes crashing back, knocks down the barriers and locks that Harry had in place so he would just forget. “You left, Louis. There’s nothing else to say.”

The thing about Louis is that he hates to be challenged. He shoves his hair back and he doesn’t glare, but Harry can see how much effort it takes for him to keep his expression blank. He can see it in the lines that crease his forehead and the pinched corners of his mouth. “There’s everything to say, Harry. I didn’t-- I didn’t _leave_ \--.” He cuts himself off when his voice starts to rise, his eyes going a bit distant and oh, Harry knows this, knows that soon Louis will start to patronize him and every bit of anger Harry allows himself to show. “Look, can we go in my room? I don’t want to do this here.”

Harry inhales a shaky breath and shoves his keycard into the door. “I’m tired, Louis. I just want to sleep.”

“Fine,” Louis says, but his tone is too level and his face too still. “Tomorrow then?”

“Fine,” Harry replies. He pushes himself into his room and forces himself not to slam the door.

He doesn’t sleep. He curls up into the window seat and watches the snow fall, watches the people huddled in close for warmth and stumbling along the streets with alcohol in their blood and laughter in their throats. He stares at the mini-bar with gritty, bloodshot eyes and wonders if he should sleep with one of the other boys tonight.

He doesn’t though. Just sits there. And wishes and wants and digs his fingers into his palms until they bleed.

He doesn’t sleep.

\-----

He must doze though, because he wakes up at half seven with bleary eyes and his back and neck aching from being hunched over in the window. He’s got goosebumps up and down his legs and arms from being pressed up against the cool glass, the snow falling right on the other side throughout the night.

Harry looks down at the dusted streets still free of trampling footprints. His head hurts a bit, from lack of sleep, from stress, from _Louis_ , so he puts on the closest clothes he has to clean and pads down to the lobby for tea.

There aren’t many people up at this hour, the lobby deserted and empty and silent. Harry curls up in an armchair near the back and drinks his tea, scalding and tasteless but distracting, so he keeps it. It feels like his bones ache from his exhaustion, from the constant anxiety in the back of his mind knowing that eventually he’s going to have to face Louis.

His legs feel restless, so many hours and days being cramped up in a car finally catching up with him.

New York is amazing at such an early hour. The sun peeks out from behind the skyscrapers, casting muted shadows over the sidewalk as Harry walks down the streets with relative ease, his hands shoved in his pockets and his beanie pulled down low. He can take in the sights even better now without people crammed in on each side of him, pressing against his clothes and making his skin crawl. It feels like he can breathe now, so he does, deep breaths that send a chill down his lungs and make him shiver in his winter coat.

He walks around Central Park, his legs burning after the third round, but he keeps pushing anyway. Harry thinks about the last time they were all here, how they all said they wanted to see Central Park but they hadn’t the time. Between the interviews and the performances and the rushed transporting between all that, they barely had time to see each other, much less a park.

Louis had said he wanted to go with Harry because, “It’s romantic, Haz. People get married in Central Park.”

And Harry had raised his eyebrows, but smiled anyway, because Louis was an idiot but a good-hearted one. “We’re going to get married, then?”

“Dunno, Curly,” Louis said. “Do I really want to be stuck with you for the rest of my life?”

They had been pressed together in their tour bus, freshly showered and high off the adrenaline of playing the Garden for the second time. Louis always tried to fit himself into Harry’s bunk after their shows, his hair still dripping with water and his glasses falling off his face. His hands were warm when they gripped Harry’s waist and turned him so Louis could fit behind him, both of them laying on their sides and molded together.

Harry would try not to shiver at the way Louis would trail his fingertips up his side, would try to focus on what Louis was saying and not the way his hands felt, the way Harry could feel the pleasure building up in the bottom of his spine and filling him up and making him hot.

“I doubt I could be stuck with you for more than a week,” Harry told him, his eyes tired and his voice a satisfied and sleepy mumble. “Maybe Central Park is a bad idea, then.”

It’s weird to think of that now, the way Louis had whispered, “Such a tosser,” into Harry’s hair but it had sounded more like _I love you_ than anything else. It’s strange to think about how Louis had kissed Harry’s neck until he’d fallen asleep, their bodies jolting along with every bump the bus went over. The way Harry had woken up too hot from the blankets and how close Louis was, but how he hadn’t wanted to move, even though they’d had an interview far too early and Liam was standing in the doorway telling them to hurry up.

Harry tries not to think about it, but his feet hurt from all the walking and his fingers feel sore from the cold and all he can think about is what could have been, what should have been.

What would have happened if he hadn’t buckled under the pressure and the stares and the rumors, if Louis hadn’t shut himself off with each swallow Harry took from the bar, his eyes cold and distant and disapproving, but that had only fueled Harry then.

Harry wonder what fuels him now, what makes him swallow each bitter gulp and wait for the burn, what makes him lose himself in the haziness and wait for his memories to fade. He wonders if Louis could still look at him like that, like Harry was just a stranger tipping his head back and shivering at how good the warm liquid felt coursing down his throat.

Harry walks until the streets get crowded again, walks up and down the sidewalks and tries to get some feeling back into his fingers and toes. The snow is trampled over now, smashed under heavy footsteps and hurried legs. Harry walks until his stomach grumbles and his throat feels dry. He walks until his phone vibrates his pocket and makes him jump.

_Where are you?_ It’s from Zayn, but Harry knows it’s all Liam, probably with his head bent over Zayn’s shoulder and waiting for Harry’s response. There’s an implied _are you alright_ and _do you need someone to come get you_ and an ugly, accusatory undertone of _are you drinking_ hiding beneath those three inquisitive words but Harry doesn’t answer any of them.

_I’m walking_ , he texts back, and he turns his phone off.

He ends up by Madison Square Garden, the venue just as huge and intimidating as he remembers. If Harry closes his eyes (and he does, and he doesn’t care that he’s standing in the middle of the street and that people are staring because people are _always_ staring), he can almost hear the screams again, the sheer white noise that blocked out everything else as they walked on stage. If he concentrates hard enough, he can feel the heat from the stage lights, feel the sweat on the back of his neck and the bass thumping like a beat through his veins. He can feel the other boys’ arms around him, their heads buried close together as they huddled around after Moments. He can see Louis’ smile, hear Niall’s speech, smell Zayn’s cologne, pick out Liam’s voice, strong and sure and steady.

If Harry closes his eyes, he can feel Louis’ hesitant touches, the way he’d put more distance between them the second time they’d been on this stage. He can feel the tension that was palpable between all of them, the way their harmonies sounded just that little bit less together. Harry can hear how loud the silence was when he and Louis couldn’t even talk to each other after the show, the way Louis had retreated to his own room and Harry’s fingers had trembled around the glass, unpracticed and afraid. But he was tired and his throat was sore and Louis was in his _own room_ , and Harry couldn’t go out but he definitely couldn’t stay there and think. He couldn’t lie in his bed and wonder when this all started feeling less like a dream and more like a nightmare.

If Harry closes his eyes, he thinks he can see the beginning of the end.

\-----

The sky is turning dark when Harry makes it back to the hotel. His legs are tired and heavy and his head aches from too many memories rushing back at once.

He slumps back into his room and tries to block it out, but he’s too sober and he feels defenseless against his own mind and his own thoughts and Louis.

Louis, who’s knocking on Harry’s door like he’d been waiting for him to come back. Louis, who looks as tired as Harry feels. Louis, who’s looking at Harry like he _knows_ , and god, sometimes Harry really thinks he might hate him.

“Dinner?” he asks, and Harry’s grumbling stomach answers for him.

There’s a restaurant attached to the hotel, this expensive place that makes Harry feels contrived, makes him feel fake and his face burn. It makes him feel like a celebrity, and he’s not. He’s a lot of things, but not that. It puts him on edge, especially when they set the bottle of wine on their table without even asking for ID.

“I’ll have water,” Harry says firmly. He pushes the bottle towards Louis, and his hands don’t shake, they don’t. “Just water for me.”

Louis orders for them. It used to make Harry smile, the fact that Louis knew him so well. Now it makes him grit his teeth, because Louis _doesn’t_ know him anymore; he doesn’t know anything about Harry, really. Not now.

“Where were you today?” Louis asks.

“Walking.”

Louis sighs, his shoulder slumping with it and making him look small. “You walked all over New York City to get away from me?”

“Not everything is about you.” Louis seems to have preoccupied the space in Harry’s head this entire trip, but god, Harry has more to think about, it seems like Harry has everything to think about. “Just wanted to get away for a bit, I guess.”

The thing about Louis is that he’s so good at hiding what he’s actually feeling. He’s different from Harry in that way, because even after a few years in the business, years spent under bright lights and the weight of watchful stares and heavy expectations, Harry still can’t manage to do that. He still reads like an open book, one that Louis knows every line from, can pick them out and twist them to make Harry into something he’s not.

So when he says, “Bit shit of you to worry Liam like that,” Harry’s not particularly surprised, because Louis knows how to prod a reaction out him better than anyone.

“I told him I was walking,” Harry says, forcing his words into something level and calm. “He shouldn’t have been worried.”

“Well, he was,” Louis snaps. “He woke me up to see if I had any idea where you would go.”

He’s got his arms crossed over his chest defensively, his shoulders hunched up to his ears. His eyes are blank, always seem to be blank, and Harry isn’t sure whether Louis is trying to hide something from him or if Louis really is as indifferent as he seems. Harry used to be able to read Louis too, used to be able to see past his masks and his snide remarks to see what was really going on. He can’t do that now, and he doesn’t know if it’s because he’s lost the ability or if he doesn’t want to know anymore. He can’t be bothered to look past the surface of Louis’ contempt.

“I’m sorry he interrupted your beauty rest,” Harry snipes back, his fingers clenching around his silverware, his nostrils flaring in defense.

Louis uncrosses his arms and pastes on a smile, this ragged and fake thing that makes Harry want to cringe. “Look, I don’t want to argue, alright? I just wanted to talk.”

“About us,” Harry says flatly. “There’s nothing to say. You left.”

“You keep saying that.” Louis struggles to keep his voice down, but he does, his tone wavering under the strain of his control. “I didn’t leave.”

Harry snorts, the sound derisive and spiteful. “You went back to London right after we got the call.”

“What was I supposed to do on a--what did they call it? Permanent hiatus? Did you expect me to stay and watch you drink yourself into oblivion?”

“I didn’t drink that much,” Harry says defensively. “And that has nothing to do with anything.”

Louis sighs and refuses to look at him, his eyes focused on the tables around them. “You’re right,” he says quietly. “I went back to London because you pushed me away. You wouldn’t let me help you.”

“I didn’t need help,” Harry snaps. He feels overheated, the undercurrent of anger running hot underneath his skin. “Not then and not now.”

“You’re impossible,” Louis tells him. “I don’t know why Liam thought coming here was a good idea.”

Harry can’t help the indignation that creeps into his voice, the irritation that hardens his tone and sharpens its edges. “Then why did you come?”

“Because I still fucking love you,” Louis hisses, his hands gripping the table tight and his mask of apathy crumbling at the edges. He blinks, struggling to regain composure but Harry can _see_ him, can see the anger and the annoyance that turns his eyes darker and flushes his cheeks. “I’m done,” he says. “I can’t do this right now.” Harry can see Louis’ hands shaking when he gets up from the table, the tremors so strong he knocks over his glass and water spills over the tablecloth.

Harry takes in a shaky breath when Louis leaves, the air feeling trapped in his lungs like he might choke. He can feel the eyes on him, inquisitive and curious and nosy, all waiting for him to crack, to give them something to tell their friends and everyone else that wants a piece of him.

Louis’ words echo in Harry’s head, the venom in his voice, the sharp look in his eyes, the way his mouth had curled around the words _I still fucking love you_. It hadn’t even looked like Louis, hadn’t sounded like Louis, and how is Harry supposed to take that? Because Louis might still love him (and that is a thought Harry can’t handle, a thought Harry doesn’t want to handle in all its absurdity), but he still _left_ , he still took a piece of Harry with every tremor in his voice and accusation he flung across the table.

Harry feels his face heat when he looks around the restaurant and catches the pitiful gazes directed towards him, the way people try to surreptitiously stare at the empty seat across from him and make their own assumptions about his life, about him, about Louis.

His water tastes bland on his tongue, flavorless and empty. His fingers tremble around his glass and he tries to fight it, but this feels so familiar, being left alone, screaming in an empty hotel room and choking down the bitter liquid he’d picked up hours before.

And Harry feels transported back in time, almost, with the the hollow feeling settling in his chest, the single-minded intent to _forget_ , because Louis was gone, Louis is still gone, really, and Harry doesn’t want to care anymore.

Harry’s tired and he’s already been through this once before. Already dealt with the entirety of Louis’ anger, the blank looks, the flat line of his lips, the distant gaze in his eyes like he was staring straight through Harry. And it doesn’t matter if Louis loves him, it doesn’t matter (and it’s probably not true), because Louis left once before and Harry won’t make the mistake of letting him get this close again.

Harry just feels angry, feels it building up under his skin and bubbling up to the surface, sending a red flush across his chest and neck and heating up his face. He feels it like a throbbing in his blood, the steady _thump thump_ of the rage he’s tried to keep swallowed down, buried and tucked away somewhere safe where he couldn’t find it again.

He feels the sudden urge for revenge, the sudden urge to show Louis everything he’s held back for two years. Harry wants to scream, wants to reveal every thought that’s kept him up at night, staring into the blackness of his room. He wants to show him the pounding emotions that hide behind his eyes, making his eyes cross and his head ache as they wait to be let out. He wants Louis to know every word he’s had to keep silent, because Louis wasn’t here and Louis doesn’t _know_.

Louis doesn’t know anything at all.

He wants to give these people a show, because they want one. Because they look at Harry like he’s some sort of experiment to gape and gawk at, and he wants to give them something to see. He wants to give them a reason to write about him and flash his face on their television screens.

Harry isn’t thinking when the waiter comes by. He doesn’t recognize his own voice when he asks for ‘your best whiskey’, his eyes blank and unfocused on the tablecloth in front of him. The noise and chatter from the people around him become white noise when the glass thumps on the table and Harry knocks it back before he can question himself, swallows it down before he regrets it.

The bitter taste greets him like an old friend. It sours at the back of his throat and warms his chest as it flows down through his blood and spreads to the tips of his fingers. It feels familiar, the warmth of the liquor, so Harry orders another, because the rest of them would hate it, because Louis would hate it (because somewhere deep down, Harry might hate it). He feels the other patrons’ eyes on him, their judgmental stares that feel heavy and prickling on his skin.

So Harry foots the bill and moves to the bar where it’s dark and he can pretend no one can see him. He can act like it’s just him and his glass that clinks hard against the counter every time he bangs it down, as he empties the contents and tries to hold himself up with heavy limbs.

The music in the hotel bar is tasteful, not loud enough to let Harry lose himself in it. His thoughts swirl into a blur of anger and hurt and damn it, he _didn’t_ push Louis away. Louis shut down. Louis let Harry yell and scream and throw things and made Harry feel so very unlike himself. Harry didn’t yell and scream and throw things but Louis wouldn’t even _look_ at him, would only hear the jibes from the media and the speculation from the fans but couldn’t bother to listen to a word Harry said, and fuck, that made him angry.

So Harry drinks and lets himself be angry. Because he’s earned it. Because he hasn’t really felt angry in two years. He’s felt tired, mostly. Tired of remembering and tired of expending so much energy trying to forget.

So Harry drinks.

And drinks.

Until he feels warm all over, his body pleasantly numb.

Until his mind can’t come up with sufficient reasons _not_ to tell Louis everything he’s been thinking.

Harry slaps some bills down on the counter, his feet already carrying him out into the lobby. There are people spilling into the hotel and crowding the elevators, and so he blends into the crowd, his thoughts jumbled but determined because he’s got alcohol raging in him and fueling his anger and determination.

The lights in the hallway seem brighter, shining into Harry’s eyes and making his head spin. He’s feels hot all over, feels panic washing over him because maybe he shouldn’t be doing this. But then Louis is responding to Harry’s steady banging on his door and the panic settles and Harry wonders what Louis would do if he punched him.

“You’re wrong, you know,” is the first thing Harry can think to say. “Everything you said was wrong.”

Louis is just in his pajamas, sleepy-looking and small in the doorway when he stares back at Harry. “I thought we were done talking about this,” he says but his eyes are flashing and that sparks something in Harry.

“I’m not done.” Harry pushes past him and talks past the bit of filter he has left, spits the words out before he can swallow them back down. “I wasn’t ever done. I didn’t push you away. You left because you didn’t want to deal with it.”

Louis slams the door, his fingers clenching around the lock. Harry can see the white around his knuckles even from across the room, can see the tight way he holds his shoulders up and the careful way he lets a breath out. “That’s not true,” Louis says. His voice trembles around the words and that only makes Harry angrier. “You know that’s not true.”

Harry scoffs, and he doesn’t know where the feeling of disgust comes from, but it tastes like bile in his throat. “Why did you go back to London, then? Why did you stay in London?”

“What else was I supposed to do, Harry?” Louis finally turns around, his eyes narrowed and jaw clenched. “You were falling apart. We all were.”

“You didn’t think I might have needed you?” And Harry did. He can remember the nights he spent staring at the television, his own room feeling too big to fill. “That I might have wanted you?”

Louis laughs, the sound hollow and flat in the space between them. “You didn’t need me. You had everything you needed conveniently bottled up for you.”

“Fuck you, Louis,” he says, his voice coming out choked and raw. He tries to breathe, but it’s almost like there’s no air in the room. “You don’t know anything about that.”

“Bull _shit_ ,” Louis snaps. His whole body shakes as Harry watches him try and compose himself, his control cracking at the corners and leaving him vulnerable in a way that makes Harry want to peel back his edges and leave him exposed. “You think I couldn’t smell it on you? You didn’t even try to hide it, Harry. You didn’t care.”

Harry grits his teeth and breathes past the numbness in his limbs and tries to sort out his thoughts. He runs a hand through his hair and tries to will his heart to stop pounding so fast, tries to block out the sound of the blood rushing in his ears.

“You reek of it,” Louis says. His voice is quiet but full of steel, hard and accusing. “You can’t do anything without it, can you?”

Harry steps closer and wills himself not to stumble, his legs feeling heavy and uncoordinated. “You don’t know anything.”

“I know that I still love you,” Louis spits out. He laughs again, the same empty sound that makes Harry take a step back. “I still love you, Harry. How stupid is that?”

“Stop saying that,” Harry snaps. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“I know it doesn’t mean anything.” Louis’ voice sounds brittle, like if Harry’s pushes him too hard it might just collapse in on itself and leave him speechless. “If it meant anything, you wouldn’t have tried to forget me. You wouldn’t have drank yourself sick every night just to get away.”

Harry feels his nails digging into his skin, can feel the heat of blood when he presses down too hard. “I drank to forget how much you didn’t care about anyone but yourself.” He can hear his voice rising, but he’s helpless to stop it. It feels like he’s watching himself lose control, watching himself tremble and shiver but he keeps yelling, keeps pushing. “You were halfway gone before you even left.”

“Because you did _this_ ,” Louis says, his own voice struggling to remain level, the strain from the effort clear on his face. “You yelled and you screamed at me, and what was I supposed to do? I couldn’t change anything, Harry. What did you want me to do?”

“Fight with me,” Harry shouts. His skin is buzzing, his whole body feeling overheated from the alcohol and his proximity to Louis. “Stop being a goddamn coward and fight with me.” Harry isn’t thinking when he reaches out, his hands shoving at Louis, catching him off guard and making him stumble.

Louis shakes his head and Harry advances, his mind a jumble of anger and hurt and heat. “I don’t want to fight.”

“You just want to run away,” Harry tells him. “You don’t care enough to fight.”

Louis clenches his fists and breathes out, tremulous and shaky. “You’re drunk, Harry.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not _fine_ ,” Louis finally yells, his voice cracking over the words. “None of us are fine. None of this is fine.”

It takes Harry by surprise when Louis pushes him back, his breath catching in his throat when his back hits the wall. He tries to right himself, get his balance back, but Louis is right there, eyes wide and his lips stretched thin, pinning Harry there.

“Come on,” Harry says. Louis hands are bracketed on either side of him, trapping Harry, so close that Harry can feel the slight tremors that run through his body, his shallow breathing. “Come on, Louis. Fight with me.”

“Shut _up_ , Harry,” Louis tells him. “Do you ever just shut up?”

Harry shoves at Louis’ shoulders, insistent prodding that pushes Louis further back each time, makes him compensate more just to keep Harry pressed up against the wall. “Why won’t you fight with me, Louis?”

“Because you’re drunk.” Louis’ hands move to grip Harry’s waist, his fingers digging in so tight Harry knows he’ll have bruises.

“Are you still angry?” Harry asks. It feels like all his blood is rushing to his head, like he’s numb except for where the pads of Louis’ fingertips leave indents in his skin, painful smudges that he can’t help but push up into. “Are you still mad at me?”

Louis shakes his head but his face is flushed red, his eyes blazing with heat and frustration and Harry pushes at him again just to watch them narrow. “I’m pissed at you,” Louis manages, shoving Harry back against the wall and leaning in close. “Sometimes I think I might hate you.”

“Then stop leaving and _fight with me_ ,” Harry says, and Louis kisses him.

Only it’s not a kiss. Louis smashes their mouths together, his hands gripping tighter when Harry lets out a grunt of pain. Harry’s shoulder blades dig into the wall behind him, his hips pinned down under Louis’ nails, the skin red and sore.

“Is this what you wanted, then?” Louis asks, only he doesn’t give Harry a chance to answer. He bites at Harry’s lips, tugging on them until Harry whimpers from the pain. “Is this what you wanted, Harry?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Harry hisses, tilting his neck back when Louis bites at it, nibbling at the skin and holding Harry down while he squirms.

Louis sucks at the skin until Harry knows he’s left a mark there too. Harry gasps and tries to pull away, but Louis’ hands move to his wrists, pinning them down and making Harry take it.

Harry pulls on Louis’ hair until he lets up, his mouth meeting Harry’s again, no less gentle but this time Harry gives it back to him. His mouth feels used and sore but he keeps pushing, biting down on Louis’ bottom lip and only letting go when he hisses out a pained breath.

Louis pushes Harry back with his body, grinding against Harry until he’s so hard it hurts. “Come _on_ , Louis.”

“Shut up,” Louis snaps. His fingers ruck up Harry’s shirt, his nails leaving a trail of scratches on Harry’s hips and stomach. “Stop yelling at me. I can’t think when you’re yelling at me.”

Harry grips Louis’ shoulders tight, only letting up when Louis yanks his shirt over his head. “You too,” Harry manages, struggling to inhale enough air to be able to breathe.

“Stop _talking_ ,” Louis tells him again. He fumbles with Harry’s belt, dragging his pants and trousers down. “Get them off,” he says, and Harry stumbles out of them, kicking them off somewhere.

He feels oddly vulnerable like this, naked with Louis fully clothed, his trousers rubbing roughly against Harry with a persistent and pleasurable sting. Louis is so close, too close almost, his mouth back on Harry’s neck, his hands holding Harry’s wrists tight. Harry doesn’t think, just lets his fingers fumble with the hem of Louis’s shirt, pushing at the material until Louis relents and lets Harry pull it off him.

“Do you have anything?” Harry asks, and Louis manhandles him toward the bed, his teeth nibbling at the edge of Harry’s ear, at his jaw, the blossoming bruises on his neck and collarbone. “Do you have anything?” Harry barely manages to get out again, his fingers scrambling at the sheets while Louis attacks his skin, leaving marks that will be tender for days.

Louis pulls himself away, his trousers hanging loose off his waist as he digs into his bag. Harry doesn’t ask if Louis was expecting to get laid on this trip, if Louis has been getting laid this whole time and Harry just didn’t know. Instead he spreads his legs and tries to keep his eyes open, because he wants to see, wants to make sure this is real.

Louis looks at him and for a second Harry thinks he might back out, might change his mind and shut down and make Harry leave.

Harry opens his mouth to say something, anything, because he’s angry but he _wants_ this, wants to feel Louis and remember how full he could be, how close they could get. Louis kisses him again before he can say anything though, his hands fumbling with his own trousers as he struggles to get them off.

“Are you going to remember this in the morning?” Louis asks him. His voice is scratchy and low and Harry is shaking his head before he’s even finished, pushing at the elastic of Louis’ pants and shoving them down.

“Yes, god, yes,” Harry gasps, his hips bucking up when Louis wraps his hand around the head, stroking his dick between the two of them. “Just fuck me. Come on, Lou.”

The nickname slips out before Harry can stop it. He can’t help the familiarity because he knows this, knows how Louis feels inside of him. He knows how his breath quickens and his fingers always shake when they’re pressing into Harry like they are now, slick with lube and pushing past the resistance until Harry pushes back, seeking more and deeper and faster.

“Don’t call me that,” Louis tells him, his voice sharp but his eyes gentle and it’s too much for Harry to try and understand so he just fucks down onto Louis’ fingers and tries to breathe. “You don’t get to call me that anymore.” He pushes into Harry with a particularly hard thrust, his fingers jolting against a spot that makes Harry shiver and moan.

“Or what?” Harry asks, his voice slurring with pleasure and the heady intoxication and Louis’ bare skin pressed up against him. “Are you going to yell at me, Lou? Scream at me?”

Harry’s voice hitches on the last word when Louis thrusts his fingers in particularly deep before pulling out. He pushes Harry’s legs up to his chest, his knees bent and his body spread open and on display. “Are you too drunk for this?”

“No, no, come on,” Harry pleads. He lifts his legs up some more, feels the burn from the stretch and settles into it. “Come on, Lou, are you giving up already? Are you going to walk away?”

Louis rips the condom packet open, his hands shaking and his voice strained when he says, “I never walked away, you twat.”

He’s only just got the condom on and lubed before he’s nudging at Harry’s hole, pressing in and Harry hisses at the slight burn, the fullness. Louis doesn’t wait for Harry to adjust to the size, to his girth or the way he feels. He pulls out and slams back in, his face hovering over Harry’s and his eyes wide as he watches.

Harry struggles to keep his own open against the blur of pleasure and pain that spreads through him and Louis pushes into him, presses in deep until Harry’s whole body moves with every thrust.

“Come on,” Harry encourages. His throat feels tight, sore with too much emotion and pent-up frustration. “I can take it, come on.”

He wraps his arms around Louis’ back, his nails dragging against the skin every time Louis pushes inside him.

Louis struggles to hold himself up, his arms trembling over Harry until he drops, their chests pressed slick and close together and Harry’s dick dragging in between them, the friction making Harry cry out, dig his fingers deeper and arch his back into the sensation.

“Come like this,” Louis says. His face is flushed and his eyes are glazed over, his lips bitten pink. He drops his head down into the juncture between Harry’s neck and shoulder, his mouth hot when he kisses the skin there.

It feels like too much. Louis feels like too much inside Harry, pulsing hot and thrusting deep. His fingers feel too gentle and too rough as they slide over Harry’s overheated skin, over his nipples and his stomach. Harry’s chest feels too tight, like his lungs are trying to burst through with every moan that escapes him, every thrust that makes him groan and push back against Louis and feel every part of him.

It feels like too much when Louis’ kisses turn gentler, his tongue a soothing heat over the bruises on his neck and throat. Harry has to shut his eyes at the whispered, “I don’t want to fight with you,” that Louis presses against his ear, the murmured, “Fuck, I love you,” that’s so low Harry can almost pretend he didn’t hear it over the loudness of his own breathing, and the quiet, “I won’t leave, I won’t leave, I won’t leave,” that Louis repeats like a mantra into Harry’s skin, carving the promise deep into his bones where it can’t be erased.

It’s too much.

Louis keeps stroking him as he comes, muttering encouragement as Harry loses it. He feels oversensitive when Louis keeps going, keeps fucking him through it, Harry’s breathing turned into broken moans and bitten off curses, his nails still digging deep enough to draw blood on Louis’ skin. Louis keeps going until he buries his head in Harry’s hair and stutters in his rhythm, panting out harsh breaths and trembling against Harry until it’s too much for both of them and he has to pull out.

“I hate you,” Louis tells him. He’s pressed up close next to Harry, his hand stroking Harry’s hip bone and his mouth back at Harry’s neck. “I hate you so much sometimes.”

Harry runs a shaky hand through his hair and concentrates on not moving, his limbs heavy and his body sated. “Is that better or worse than loving me?” He can barely get the words out with the sudden wave of exhaustion that hits him, settling over him and pinning him down to the bed.

“Better,” Louis says, “because it eventually goes away. Loving you never does.”

Louis doesn’t wait for Harry to say anything, just pushes himself off the bed and turns out the light on his way to the bathroom. Harry shuts his eyes for a moment and feels the weight of the world on his shoulders, feels the heaviness of Louis’ words and a bone-crushing tiredness. He can hear the water running and Louis’ bare feet padding over the floor. There are words stuck in Harry’s throat, words that have been settled in the back of his mind for two years now, words that originated from his heart and permeated Harry’s every waking and sleeping thought. Words that he ought to say, maybe, but they’re words that could break him, could break the fragile atmosphere that’s settled over the room.

Three words hang over Harry’s head and taunt him, words that make him squeeze his eyes shut tighter because nothing is fixed, nothing is resolved, and maybe it’s best that he keeps these words locked up tight.

He pretends to be asleep when Louis walks back out, smelling clean like soap and powder, his body emitting warmth from the shower as he hovers over Harry. There’s the rough drag of a washcloth over Harry’s skin, wiping away sweat and come and angry words, words infused with hate and resentment and loneliness.

Harry falls asleep like that, with Louis crouched next to him, wiping away words that Harry won’t miss.

\-----

New York is quiet when Harry wakes up, the snow less white and more grey and the clouds dampening the sky overhead. Harry burrows under the covers and tries to cling to the warmth before it leaves the bed and fills up the empty space he can feel in the room.

He shoves his face into the pillow and inhales the smell of sweat and sex and his shampoo and Louis all mixed together in the fabric. His eyes are gritty and his body is sore when he moves, the twinge of pain that flickers in his spine a silent reminder of the night before. Harry takes advantage of being alone, showering in peace and pressing inquisitive fingers to the bruises on his skin, settling them under the water and letting himself get clean.

He rummages up enough annoyance to justify using Louis’ toothbrush. It’s a gross thing to do, but Harry thinks Louis might deserve it, considering the fact that he’d left again (and Harry doesn’t really want to think about that, so he just brushes his teeth and flees).

His clothes from last night feel grimy against his skin, heavy with the sweet smell of liquor clinging to them. Harry thinks about changing, but his throat is dry and his stomach is growling so he decides on food instead, something greasy and fattening to cater to the hangover he feels lingering behind his eyes.

He orders a cranberry juice from the bar and finds a secluded corner of the restaurant to sit and pore over the menu. Harry’s got his hood pulled up over his head and his feet tucked in the chair and he’s tentatively comfortable when he sees the shadow over the table and feels the sudden hesitancy that fills the air around him.

“You slept late, then,” Louis says, and all Harry can do is stare.

“I’m guessing you got up pretty early,” he manages, his tongue feeling stuck to the roof of his mouth, bound by nerves and residual anger and dashed and stupid hope. “What time did you leave?”

Louis shrugs. He glances at the empty seat across from Harry but doesn’t move toward it yet. “Round seven, I suppose. I couldn’t sleep.” His mouth quirks into a ghost of a smile, the edge of his lip curling just a bit. “You still hog the covers, you know.”

“I do not,” Harry defends immediately. His teeth clack together when he realizes he’s given in to the easy banter, but Louis presses forward, pulling out the chair and sitting down. “I don’t hog the covers,” Harry says again.

“You do,” Louis simply says. He watches Harry takes another sip of his juice, and Harry tries not to squirm under the scrutiny.

They’re quiet until the waitress comes, but Harry’s the only one ordering. Waffles and eggs and sausage, and he ignores the look Louis gives him over the table, focusing on the waitress instead.

They’re quiet until Louis says, “I went for a walk. Do you know they sell churros at seven in the morning?”

“I know you shouldn’t have churros at seven in the morning,” Harry replies.

“Got a sugar rush and ended up taking a run around Central Park,” Louis admits. “It was a bad idea.”

Harry lets the silence fall again, his eyes stuck on the eagle hanging from the chain on Louis’ neck, the dark imprints under his eyes, the lines of worry in his forehead.

“I didn’t mean to sleep with you last night,” Louis says finally. He shrugs, his movements languid and defeated. “Just so you know.”

“I didn’t mean to sleep with you, either,” Harry tells him, deciding to be honest. “Is that why you weren’t there this morning?”

Louis nods and leans back in his chair. “Did you ever think we would end up like this?”

“In a hotel in New York City?”

“Hating each other,” Louis says bluntly. “I never thought I would hate you.”

It should make Harry take pause, he thinks, should make him upset, but it doesn’t. Because Louis doesn’t look shut off or distanced. He’s looking straight at Harry, like he sees him, like he honestly wants to know.

“No,” Harry tells him. “I never thought we would end up like this.”

They pause when Harry’s food comes, piping hot and as greasy as Harry imagined.

“I think I’m still angry,” Louis says. “I still want to hit you.”

Harry’s mouth stretches into a reluctant smile and he pushes his plate in between them, offering Louis his extra fork. “Well, I did hit you last night, if you remember.”

Louis pulls down the neckline of his shirt and reveals a red bruise on his shoulder, angry looking and large. “I remember,” he offers dryly, poking at the bruise and sucking in a breath.

“I’m not sorry,” Harry says. “You deserved it.” And Louis did. Louis still deserves it.

“You deserve a good one, too,” Louis counters, but he snags a sausage link instead of throwing a punch.

Harry doesn’t bother pointing out all the marks Louis already left, the hickeys sucked deep into his neck and chest and jaw. Most of them are hidden now, raw and livid red and purple-hued reminders. “I don’t think I regret it,” Harry says. It’s a quiet admission, one he’s not sure he’s comfortable making, but if Louis can be honest then Harry can--try. “Sleeping with you, I mean.”

Louis looks like he might make a joke, like he might brush it off, but then his smile drops and he exhales heavily. “I regret you being drunk when we did it.”

Harry opens his mouth (to snipe, to defend himself, to tell Louis to fuck off), but Louis is already waving a hand, contrite. “I’m not going to give you shit about it.”

“Good,” Harry says sharply.

Louis sighs and rolls his eyes, his mouth going flat with annoyance. “I’m not sure why I still love you. You’re a proper arsehole, you know.”

“And you’re not?” Harry counters.

“That’s completely besides the point.”

“And what’s the point?”

“I’ve told you I love you about ten times now,” Louis says expectantly.

“It’s been five times,” Harry tells him. “Not even you are that dramatic.”

Louis snags the other sausage out of spite, his eyes narrowing with irritation. “You’re keeping count but you won’t say it back?”

“It wasn't enough before," Harry admits.

"Maybe not," Louis says. "but I still love you regardless."

"Louis--"

"And I missed you every day," Louis interrupts quietly. "I miss you right now and you're right in front of me."

Harry sighs and gives up on eating, his stomach unsettled and anxious. "You never called."

"What did you expect me to say, Harry?" Louis asks exasperatedly. "Your face is plastered on every tabloid in london, you know? It's a bit overwhelming." Louis shoves a hand through his hair and gives Harry a shaky smile, more of a grimace than anything else. "I just don't want to fight with you anymore."

"What if we mess it up again?" Harry asks, and that's the real question here. There's the underlying fear that Harry can have Louis again, just to lose him. Just to deal with the screaming and the yelling and the leaving all over again. It wouldn't just be Harry and Louis that would break, it would be all of them.

"Then we run away again," Louis says, and he's smiling in that way that Harry knows means he's serious. "We'll backpack across Europe next time. We could stay in really awful hostels and give Liam a heart attack."

Harry feels exhausted, despite the many hours slept. "You're an idiot," Harry says. "I don't know why I love you."

Louis makes a muted sound of satisfaction and relaxes and his chair.

"What does this mean, then?" Harry asks.

"That I love you," Louis says firmly. "And that you love me. That's all it has to mean, Harry."

Louis eats the rest of Harry's food in relative silence. Harry can't think of anything to say but he nudges his foot against Louis', hesitant and unsure and careful. Louis' mouth twitches at the corners, and he nudges back, just as hesitant but still there. Something clicks into place as they sit there. Nothing is fixed and this, sitting here with Louis, feels loose and precarious and unstable, but it's still in place. So Harry holds this feeling close to his chest and hopes it doesn't fall and break.

\-----

They all breathe a sigh of relief when Liam drives past the _Welcome to Vermont_ sign. New York is lovely, but the buildings are too close and the people closer and once they’re gone Harry feels like he has room to move again.

Liam turns the radio down low while they drive, has the heat blasting from the vents and warming their fingers and toes. It’s colder up north, their heavy jackets getting more use and Harry’s beanie becoming a permanent fixture on his head.

They drive through the night, so Zayn reads out tourist attractions to keep them all awake (he’s the only one likely to fall asleep, but talking distracts Zayn from smoking and they’re all a bit tired of the smell). “We could go dog sledding,” he says, squinting down at his phone. “Can you die from that?”

“Probably,” Louis says. “Do you even like dogs?”

Zayn grumbles, but he moves on, his soft mumble of, “Well, it’s not like I’d actually have to touch them,” going unacknowledged.

Harry likes Vermont. He likes the way he can see the trees growing taller the further into the state they get, the way the snow-capped mountains peek over the edge of the horizon and greet the sunrise. The people are nice, too. They get directions three different times, when Liam can’t figure out what he’s pressed on the GPS and they’re all too tired to figure it out.

Vermont has skiing, which reminds Harry of when he went with Louis, how much fun they’d had.

He’s a little rusty when they do it this time, falling all over himself when he goes down too fast, slamming into unknown bodies when he forgets how to stop. Liam’s the only one who’s any good, only one who has the strength to keep getting up after falling all afternoon.

Louis hangs his and Harry’s scarves up on one of the trees when they pass by on the ski lift. “We should have done this before,” he says when Harry tries to protest. “It’s like we’re leaving a bit of ourselves here, so we won’t forget.”

Harry thinks they’ve done that enough already, leaving bits of themselves here and there. He’s not sure how much more any of them have to give at this point, but he gives Louis his scarf anyway, and Louis throws them over one of the lower hanging branches and nods, satisfied.

Zayn doesn’t even bother with skiing, and they meet him in the lodge later. He’s got a table reserved and steaming cups of cocoa waiting.

“Nose is red,” he points out to Harry, poking it with the tip of his finger. “You look twelve years old like that.”

Harry and Niall share a chair by the fire and the others bury together on the sofa across from the them.

“Hey,” Niall says quietly. He nods his head toward Louis, his blue eyes wide and curious. “Everything alright?”

Harry shrugs, his head lolling back onto Niall’s shoulder. “Better,” is the word he decides on, because nothing is fixed and everything could be shattered in a second but it’s better than it was, Harry thinks. And that’s more than what he thought he could ever say about him and Louis again.

Niall runs a hand through Harry’s curls, like all the boys used to when they could tell Harry needed it. He leans into the touch and closes his eyes, let’s the gentle scratch of Niall’s nails against his scalp lull him into a slight doze. He can hear the other boys murmuring around him, and occasionally Niall will jostle him when he laughs too hard, his whole body moving with it.

“Liam might actually kill you both if you mess it up again,” Niall says eventually. He’s smiling a little but Harry thinks there might be a warning somewhere in there, something a little resentful at already having to pick up the pieces once. “So do us all a favor and don’t, okay?”

Harry shimmies closer and Niall keeps petting him, still gentle. “We won’t,” he says. It’s a stupid promise to make, one that both he and Niall know could break at any second, but it means something, so Niall accepts it and settles back into the chair.

In New Hampshire they refuse to let Zayn sit inside, so Liam straps snowshoes on them all and they tumble out into the snow, bulky and heavy footed.

Louis tries to run in his, which fails spectacularly, his poles constantly getting stuck in the depths of the snow and making him fall. He links arms with Harry at one point, both of them stomping down the hill and trying to keep up with Liam.

Niall gets stuck with Zayn and he tries to teach him how to walk in the shoes, both of them getting smaller and smaller while the others race ahead and lose them. Liam leads Harry and Louis down come convoluted path, not slowing down even when they complain, not stopping until they get to the base of the hill and he smiles in accomplishment.

“This is fun, right?” he asks, and it is, even if Harry’s lungs might explode in his chest and the cold feels like it’s biting through his skin. “Good exercise.”

Louis collapses on the ground and tries to make snow angels, his legs and arms flinging out uselessly until he realizes he’s not making any progress. “This isn’t fun anymore,” he complains, and he sounds so much like he used to--whiny and silly and ridiculous--that Harry can’t help but laugh at him.

“That’s because you’re doing it wrong,” Liam says, and Harry isn’t really expecting him to drop to the ground next to Louis, arms and legs going wide, but he does. “You’ve got to take the shoes off first.”

That’s how Zayn and Niall find them, Liam and Louis flailing next to each other and Harry holding their shoes. Their faces are flushed pink from exertion, their teeth chattering and their fingers numb, but Louis squeezes Harry’s hands when he takes his shoes back, and Harry doesn’t mind the trek back up the hill so much after that.

They get a room at a Bed and Breakfast, some small place with a small woman that greets them and tells them to be up at 8 for breakfast. She kisses each of their cheeks, leaning up on her toes to reach.

Harry and Louis share a room.

Both of them fall quiet in the fragile silence, tiptoeing around the other and apologizing when they get too close. Harry breaks first, calling first shower and escaping under the hot water and the steam that fills up the small bathroom. The heat does nothing to ease the weight of the anxiety pooling in his stomach, the learned paranoia that anything could happen if he isn’t prepared.

They switch places in silence too, Louis locking himself in the bathroom and Harry cocooning himself under the covers that smell fresh and clean and keep him warm. He buries his face in the pillow, inhaling the lingering scent of detergent and counting the seconds Louis spends in the bathroom. He tries to will himself to go to sleep, but the sound of the water running seems too loud and Harry swears he can hear Louis singing under the spray, his raspy voice seeming distant yet familiar at the same time.

Harry pretends to be asleep when Louis comes back, his eyes shut tight and his body unmoving. Louis still flops on the bed though, burrowing close to Harry and stopping just before their bodies touch. He doesn’t close the gap until Harry opens his eyes and sighs, opening his arms a bit and letting Louis press his face into Harry’s neck.

“Are we ever going to be okay?” Louis murmurs. His breath tickles the skin at Harry’s neck and reminds Harry of the fading bruise there, the marks made out of anger and frustration and time spent apart.

He smells like soap and his hair is still wet, dripping water all over the bed and the sheets and Harry. “I don’t know,” Harry answers honestly. He puts a tentative arm around Louis’ back, just to feel the heat there, feel the faint rise and fall when he breathes. “This is okay, right?”

Louis nods and kisses Harry’s neck, and Harry can feel him smile at the shiver it inspires. “This is okay,” he agrees. He lifts his head and meets Harry’s eyes, tired and hopeful and wary all at once. “Can I kiss you?”

“You’re asking?” Harry wonders aloud. “Why are you asking?”

Louis huffs out an exasperated breath, headbutting Harry’s jaw a bit. “I don’t _know_ ,” he whines. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. I don’t want to do something that makes you yell at me.”

“I’m probably going to yell at you a lot,” Harry admits. “You make me very angry.”

Louis pokes at Harry’s side. “Will kissing make you very angry?”

“Probably not, no,” Harry says. He almost manages to stay relaxed when Louis does kiss him, only his shoulders and hands freezing up for the those first few moments.

“Just me,” Louis murmurs. He runs a hand down Harry’s arms, his fingers trailing over the goosebumps that rise on Harry’s skin. His touch is gentler this time, nothing rough enough to leave marks, his lips warm and careful against Harry’s. “Okay?” he asks, and Harry kisses him back just to shut him up.

It’s nice, the way kissing Louis feels so familiar to Harry. He remembers the way Louis always has to be touching him, his hands flitting from Harry’s hair to his chest to the skin above the waistband of his boxer-briefs. Louis likes to bite, it’s just in his nature, and Harry isn’t surprised by the nips on his lower lip, the slight press of teeth sinking down.

“Promise we’re not going to mess this up,” Louis says once they pull apart. “Promise me.”

Harry sighs, his hand a little firmer on Louis’ back now, more sure that the touch is welcome. “Can’t promise that.”

“Well, promise me something,” Louis tells him. “Anything. I don’t care what.”

Harry reaches over to turn out the light, hiding a smile when Louis grumbles at being jostled.

“I promise I won’t hog the covers tonight,” he murmurs into the dark.

“Promise?”

“Promise,” Harry repeats.

\-----

The lake house in Maine isn’t planned, and thinking back on it, Harry’s not sure how they got here.

(It might have happened at the Bed and Breakfast in New Hampshire. When they’ve all scrambled down into the cozy dining room with a few other guests and are being served pancakes and eggs and maple bacon and fresh orange juice.

Harry’s half-asleep, head fuzzy and mouth gritty and dry. Liam shoves into the chair next to him, his face solemn and something hiding in the corner of his eyes, something Harry should be able to read and decipher, but he’s tired. Excusably exhausted.

“I have an idea for our next stop,” Liam says. He pulls out his phone with an apologetic face at the world at large, because Liam is polite and having a phone at the breakfast table is anything but. “Look at these.”

He shows Harry houses, houses set by glistening lakes and wood-built docks. His fingers scroll through small places with cozy interiors and fireplaces. He pauses over one, small and quaint and Harry squints at it.

“Looks like the bungalow,” he croaks out.

Liam nods excitedly, enlarging the pictures of the place. “Bit stupid to rent out a place for such a short time, but--” He shrugs, looking embarrassed and hopeful and knowing, even though Harry isn’t sure what he knows. “Do you want to go? I mean, this is your--” He cuts himself off again.

“Intervention,” Harry supplies. He doesn’t sound bitter, he doesn’t, just tired. He’s tired.

“It’s a _proper roadtrip_ ,” Liam stresses a little too loudly, and Harry can hear Zayn’s laugh from where he’s sitting a bit further down the table. “It’s not an intervention,” Liam mumbles.

Harry bumps him with his shoulder, waggling his eyebrows until Liam is forced into smiling again. “I want to go,” he says. “Be a bit like old times, yeah?”)

Maine is cold, but not too cold. They turn up the heat in the house and sit themselves in front of the fireplace until their fingers and toes don’t feel quite so numb anymore.

Harry makes dinner for them all, his fingers clumsy with the utensils and the stove because it’s been so long since he’s made himself a proper meal, much less four other people. Louis sits on the countertop and watches him, his legs swinging back and forth against the granite in a rhythm that shouldn’t be calming to Harry, but it is.

“Feels a bit weird being here,” Louis says eventually. “It’s like being back in the bungalow.”

Drain the noodles. Turn up the heat on the sauce. Grate the cheese. Harry concentrates on Louis’ tapping foot and the precise recipe to keep himself from thinking too much about the memories at the bungalow. They’re good memories, before the drama and the drinking and the yelling and the hiatus, but they still hurt a bit, if Harry thinks about them for too long. There are a lot of smiles that Harry hasn’t seen in awhile and touches that lasted far longer than they do now.

Getting ready for dinner is a group effort. Zayn sets the table, calling over his shoulder about what side the fork and knife go on and if the napkins should be set on the plate or next to it.

“The hell are you on about, Malik?” Niall calls back. “This isn’t a restaurant. Just set the table, mate.”

Liam chops the salad, careful and precise and humming while he does it. He ignores Niall’s grumbles and adds in carrots because, “Adults eat vegetables, Niall.” He comes to help Harry with the spaghetti too, eager for something to do. Harry thinks he might be overcompensating for something, trying to make up for something, but then Liam nuzzles Harry’s neck when he walks by, quick and familiar, and Harry thinks maybe Liam is okay.

Louis and Niall pour glasses of Sweet Tea (because Harry has looked for it in every state. The store bought gallons aren’t as good but they’ll do).

Harry hasn’t sat down to dinner in years, can’t even remember doing so when they could still call themselves a band. It’s a bit different from when they invaded his home in the middle of the night (and God, does that feel like ages ago now). Harry doesn’t feel the overwhelming need to drink, doesn’t feel like his skin will rip at the seams if he doesn’t imbibe the bitter taste of alcohol. Louis sits next to him this time, their elbows nudging when they pick up their forks and Louis looks at him and he’s _here_. Harry doesn’t feel strange eating, because he’s ingested more than enough food on this trip and no one is watching him to make sure he doesn’t fall apart at the table.

It’s strange, how easily they’ve slipped back into being so comfortable with one another. It’s terrifying and exhilarating and it feels like the beginning again, when they’d first met and everything was new and fragile but solid. It used to be that Harry didn’t think anything could break them.

But it turned out they could break themselves.

They sit on the dock when they’re done eating, their legs hanging off the edges and the tips of their toes swinging over the freezing water. Harry pulls his jacket closer and watches the sunset, the orange glow settling down past the blue horizon.

“This is nice,” he says, once it’s dark out and he can see his breath when he talks. The moonlight casts shadows over all their faces but he can see their smiles reflected back at him, and Zayn bumps his shoulder in silent agreement.

“D’ya remember the second time we went to the bungalow?” Niall asks suddenly. “And we thought it couldn’t get any crazier than that?”

Louis laughs, the sound echoing out over the dock and settling into the ripples of the water. “That feels like ages ago, to be honest.”

It does feel like ages ago. They had all been so young, so unsuspecting of what fame and the screams and the expectations could do to a person. How it could weigh someone down until their knees buckled and they were too tired to get up again. Harry hadn’t known how exhausted a person could be, how no hours of sleep could seem to cure the tired creaking in his bones or quiet the rapid, anxious thoughts that clouded his brain at night.

“It was ages ago,” Harry says. It was a lifetime ago. It happened to different people, different boys entirely.

“I don’t think I regret it though,” Liam murmurs. Harry hadn’t thought he would. He remembers the way Liam would light up at the fans, the hours he spent doing Twitcams and signing autographs and giving all of himself to strangers screaming his name. “We had fun for awhile.”

Harry doesn’t know what he regrets. He’d like to take back the screaming, the tantrums, the words designed to hurt. He’d like to take back cracking under the pressure, because if he had just pushed a little bit more, fought a little bit harder, they might be in a completely different place. He might be a completely different person.

He doesn’t think he regrets anything else. Not being in a band and not meeting these people.

The water grows still and the air grows colder while they sit out there, squeezed together on a little wooden dock and soaking up each other’s warmth. It’s the first time in awhile that he doesn’t want to be anywhere else, isn’t thinking about the next destination and wanting to run farther and farther away.

“I think I’m ready to go home,” Harry says quietly. His own chest tightens up as he says the words, and for a second he wants to reach out and take them back, stuff them back into his lungs and hide them there.

He feels Louis stiffen slightly beside him, can feel his hesitance and concern and the _are you sure?_ that goes unsaid but Harry can still hear it anyway. He can feel the weight of Zayn’s stare on him, the way he tries to look beneath Harry’s words to see if he’s really ready to stop running. They’d all been running, really, Harry realizes now. Not just him.

“Good,” Niall says, “because I’ve missed me Mum’s cooking like nobody’s business, mate.”

Harry waits for Liam’s reaction, for surprise or worry or _something_. But Liam just smiles, his eyes going narrow with it, and something dislodges in Harry’s chest, something heavy that he probably didn’t need weighing him down anyway.

Louis lays his head on Harry’s shoulder, finally voicing the _are you sure_ into the fabric of his jacket, the words almost disappearing into the material.

“No,” Harry says honestly, and Louis doesn’t say anything to that.

They stay outside until Zayn falls asleep on Liam’s shoulder and Harry is shivering in his own jacket and the coat Louis put over him. Harry feels his own eyes closing as he makes his way to his room, Louis pressed up behind him, smelling like saltwater and moonlight and memories old and new and yet to be formed.

Liam’s leaving the bathroom when Harry goes to brush his teeth, clad in his pajamas and looking rumpled and sleepy and Harry loves him with a tangible ache, it seems.

“Okay?” Liam asks, and Harry revels in the surprised _oof_ he lets out when Harry clings to him, arms wrapped tight around Liam’s back and nose buried in his scent, warm and comforting and safe. “Harry?”

The words seem stuck in Harry’s throat, reluctant and unsure, but he forces them out, writes them into Liam’s skin and hopes they never wash away. “Thank you,” he manages. It doesn’t cover half of what he wants to say, and it’s more of a _sorry_ and an _I love you_ than a thank you, but Liam seems to know anyway. He strokes the hair at the back of Harry’s neck, soft and sure, but he doesn’t say anything, but he just seems to know, and that’s enough.

Harry falls asleep almost as soon as he burrows under the blankets, Louis gravitating toward him like a magnet, his skin hot against Harry’s, branding him all over. Harry runs his fingers down the knobs of Louis’ spine tries to memorize them so he never forgets.

(In the morning they’ll be in the same position, only Louis will be awake. He’ll have on his mischievous smile, the one that used to make Harry go along with whatever Louis wanted, the one that used to make Harry’s heart heavy with fondness. The one that looks a little broken now, skewed and cracked at the corners, but it’s still there and Harry makes a silent promise to try and keep it together so it doesn’t fall apart entirely.

“Let’s go swimming,” Louis says. “Just to say we did something ridiculous on this trip.”

“This whole trip was ridiculous,” Harry points out. “And the water is freezing cold,” he adds, but he’s already slipping out of bed behind Louis, his pulse racing.

Louis doesn’t bother keeping quiet as they run through the house, their feet slapping loudly over the tiles and their clothes littering the ground as they burst through the doors.

“Ready?” Louis asks, stark naked in the early hours of the morning and already shivering from the cold. Harry wants to follow his goosebumps like a map, just to see where he’d end up, if it leads him to the same place as before or some place different, some place better.

“Ready,” is all he says though, and he holds his breath when Louis takes his hand and tugs him into the water.

The water truly is freezing, the cold sloshing against Harry’s skin like pinpricks. He clings to Louis and works to keep himself afloat when his toes and fingers feel numb. Louis huffs out a laugh against his shoulder, sounding breathless when he says, “This was stupid. It’s fucking cold,” and Harry shakes and trembles but he’s grinning and Louis doesn’t let go.

Eventually Liam shuffles out to the end of the dock, looking unimpressed and grumpy and holding out two towels. “Out,” he says, “you idiots.” And it’s worth it for the face he makes when he sees they’re naked. “I hope you get pneumonia,” he hisses. “I hope your toes turn blue and fall off,” and Harry thinks Liam might have a heart attack when Louis flings himself out of the water and clings to him, getting him soaked.

Zayn has tea waiting on the counter when they get in, and Niall still looks half-asleep when he squints at them and asks, ‘Why the fuck are you naked?”

It’s worth it when they’re both toweled off, shivering in front of the fireplace with pruned skin and damp hair. Louis’ lips feel chapped when he leans over and kisses Harry and whispers, “Okay?” and Harry kisses him back to shut him up.)

\-----

Going home is a long journey.

There is literally the entire span of the United States between Harry and LA. It’s a distance he feels acutely when Liam obeys every speed limit to the exact mile, huffing when one of them tells him to “just press down a bit on the gas pedal, Li, it’ll be fine.” There are quite a few states to go through before Harry has to deal with the consequences of this trip ending, of having to deal with the reality of his life and Louis and everything they’ve yet to say about the future (if there is one, and god, if that doesn’t plague Harry with every mile closer they come to Los Angeles).

They pick different states to drive through this time to avoid redundancy.

Massachusetts is fun, and Harry tries to mimic the Boston accent for an entire day before Zayn threatens to throw him out of the car.

Pennsylvania has the Eastern State Penitentiary. It’s a massive prison, a contradiction in itself, with some of the rooms and cells crumbling and other parts restored to exceptional glory.

“This is the cell Al Capone stayed in,” Zayn reads off the information packet, his eyes huge and searching in the carpeted and luxurious room. It doesn’t look like a cell at all. The floor is covered with a huge oriental rug, expensive looking and heavy. There are oil paintings hung on the wall, incredible things that look like they belong in a museum, not a prison cell.

Louis tries to strap himself to one of the crumbling beds in the Hospital, the dust covering his pants and his hair. “Idiot,” Harry mumbles fondly, and it comes so easily he almost regrets it, almost wants to take it back until he sees Louis’ quick as lightning grin.

Pennsylvania also claims to have the ‘World’s Largest Burgers’. There’s a place called Denny’s Beer Barrel Pub that serves them burgers larger than their heads, thumping heavily on the table when they’re sat down. It takes all five of them to finish the thing, and even Niall slumps in his seat after awhile, cheeks stuffed and face red from the effort.

“Is it even legal?” Liam wonders when they’re done. He’s half carrying Niall and half dragging him back to the car, but Niall’s too far gone to notice either way. “To make burgers that big?”

“I think everything’s legal in America,” Louis says. It’s not like he’d even touched the thing, more content to shovel chunks at the rest of them and tease them when they tried to give up. He’s the one wearing the T-shirt they’d won though, and he makes Zayn take a picture of him in it, smiling in front of the restaurant.

They stay in ratty motels in between stops and driving, just because they can. The others default to letting Harry and Louis share a bed, their bodies tucked together too close in the small beds, sticking together for warmth under the cheap blankets.

Sometimes Harry can’t sleep, his body too wired, his thoughts constantly fast-forwarding to when this trip is over. He doesn’t cling tighter to Louis, but he wants to, wants to mold himself to the contours of Louis’ body and leave a Harry-shaped hole that Louis can’t possibly ignore.

Harry doesn’t say anything but he thinks Louis might know. He can feel Louis’ fingers dragging down his spine in the middle of the night, etching a message into Harry’s skin, something that makes his breath hitch and his body fit impossibly closer to Harry’s.

“Are you awake?” he whispers, quiet and unsure and hesitant, and Harry pretends to be asleep because he doesn’t want to talk about their past or their present or their future. He just wants to close his eyes and breathe in the smell of Louis’ shampoo, shift against the rough material of his sweatpants and forget for a second, for a minute, for a night.

They drive through Ohio, picking up Route 66 once they reach the windy city of Chicago.

Route 66 is a blur of greasy food and creepy roadside attractions and sleeping as the landscape rushes past the glass and blurs into colors and shapes that Harry can’t keep up with. There’s the blue whale hovering menacingly over the murky water, polluted with cans and paper and trash. There’s the disappearing Prada store, sinking into the sand and reminding Harry of home, of LA and busy streets and too many people.

Zayn takes to blasting the radio, the bass thumping against the seats and drowning out everyone’s thoughts. He keeps his cigarettes close, a never-ending cycle through his shaky fingers, and Liam sighs and stares out the window but doesn’t say anything, because the closer they get to Los Angeles, the more anxious they all become. Louis stops kicking the back of Harry’s seat somewhere in New Mexico, when Harry snaps at him to stop and the whole car goes quiet.

Harry thinks he might want a drink to fill the silence that settles in the car, the silence he can hear even over the music that Zayn plays so loud he thinks the notes might vibrate right through his skin. He thinks he might want a drink so he can go back to forgetting how Louis feels wrapped around him, the way his bites, the way his fingers feel when they brush through Harry’s curls when they both wake up too early and sneak out to whatever motel’s balcony and stare at the sunrise. He thinks he’d like to forget that, if the memories hurt too much.

In Arizona there is an overflow of signs pointing to the Grand Canyon.

It’s an impulsive thing when Harry says, “Let’s stop there,” and Zayn automatically switches lanes to get off on the exit. It’s meant to be a distraction, really, one more stop to delay going home.

The thing about the Grand Canyon is that Harry knows it’s big. He’s seen pictures and heard stories and idly wondered what it would be like to see it in person. He’s pictured it as a hole in the ground, a crater meant to draw crowds and pictures and tourist revenue. He hadn’t expected the miles and miles that the canyon ran, the sheer massiveness of it, the horizon stretching too far in the distance to be able to see where it ended.

“Shit,” Niall says, and the others can only nod in agreement.

None of them are interested in hiking or exploring the isolated terrain and getting lost in the vastness of it all. Harry feels overwhelmed enough staring down into the rocky, red-stained abyss, the rapidly flowing water rushing through miles and miles beneath them. They latch onto a small, guided tour instead, walking through marked trails and rocky terrain with their hearts in their throats and their feet stumbling.

It’s off-season for tourism, thankfully, so it’s only a small hassle setting up camp on such short notice.

Liam buys two tents and a few sleeping bags (and of course he knows how to set the tents up, of course. He doesn’t even bother asking the others for help and they don’t bother offering). They set up camp near the edge of the campsite, away from the few different groups that are scattered around, away from prying eyes and eavesdropping ears.

Liam sets out spare blankets near the edge, looking out over the canyon and up at the twinkling sky. Harry’s not used to seeing the sky so clear, so bright, and it’s a bit breathtaking to see here. It’s a bit nice to end this trip like this, looking out at something so much bigger than him, than his problems, than any of them really.

“Okay,” Liam says, his voice quiet in the darkness and settling over Harry like another blanket. “Favorite place we’ve been. Go.”

There’s a pause before Niall says, “Washington, D.C. Hey, you saved that picture of me with that wax Obama, yeah?”

“Yes, Niall,” they all reply dutifully.

“I liked Disney World,” Zayn says. “The talking mice weren’t that bad.”

“That was my favorite, too,” Liam adds. “And they were people, Zayn, not mice.”

There’s an expectant silence, and Harry knows he should say something, anything really, but his tongue feels stuck to the roof of his mouth and his throat feels dried up and used. He’s not really sure what he’d like to say. He’s liked all of it.

He liked Colorado and cliff-diving, the heady rush he’d felt when his body hit the ice cold water, when his limbs felt heavy and he had to drag himself onto the bank. He liked Graceland, liked seeing a legend commemorated, liked knowing that he wasn’t the only one who handled the fame poorly. He liked the beach. He liked standing at the shore and feeling the waves lap up against his feet, liked feeling the sand against his skin. He liked piling up in a bed and watching movies all day.

He liked--

“New York,” Louis murmurs. He’s quiet and tentative and Harry could touch him now, if he wanted. He would have before, if they were still in Maine, if they were safe on the other side of the country and far away from reality. They’re not though. They’re here, in Arizona, one state away from knowing if they’d be breaking what they’d only just started putting back together. So Harry doesn’t touch.

But he wants to, he thinks. He’d like to, if this were a different time and place.

“Maine,” Harry says finally. He liked Maine. He enjoyed the house and the dock and the swimming. He liked cooking for these boys again. He liked waking up next to Louis in a bed that could comfortably fit them both, with Louis smiling at him and his eyes all sleepy but warm. But happy. Happier than Harry has seen them in a long time. “Maine was nice.”

It’s almost pitch black by the time any of them are tired, the only light coming from distant campfires and the flashlight Liam pulls out of his bag “for emergencies”. Zayn nods off first, and Liam carries him into their tent like it’s a habit by now. It might be, still ingrained from when Zayn would fall asleep in their van or the wrong part of the bus and Liam would dutifully carry him to bed, never complaining.

Niall follows soon after, muttering goodnights and complaining about sleeping on the ground. “Can I get eaten out here?” he asks, and it’s only after Louis reassures him that, no, he will not be eaten, it’s just impossible, that Niall finally disappears inside the tent.

It’s just Harry and Louis then, staring up at the sky and breathing in tandem, shaky, desperate breaths filling the air.

They’ll be leaving in the morning, driving back to Los Angeles. The last time they’d been on the brink of breaking, there were a lot of things Harry had left unsaid. He doesn’t think he wants that this time. Doesn’t want to drink the words away until they settle in the pit of his stomach, buried under liquor and exhaustion and regret.

“I love you,” he ends up saying. He’s not sure if that’s what he meant to say, if those were the words he should have chosen, but they’ve been said now and Harry can’t take them back.

Louis shifts so he’s facing Harry, his eyes dark and his mouth turned down. “I love you too,” he says slowly. “Why are you making it sound like a bad thing?”

“It isn’t?” Harry questions. Loving Louis hurts. It’s all-encompassing and overwhelming and it fills up the spaces between his bones, the crevices in his thoughts and subconscious until Louis is the only thing that Harry knows. “Feels like a bad thing sometimes.”

“Thank you so much,” Louis tells him dryly. “Do you think loving you is any better? I have bruises from you.”

“I’ve got bruises, too,” Harry tells him. “And you _bite_.”

There’s a smile, Harry thinks, hiding in the lines of Louis’ face. “I do,” Louis agrees.

There’s a lull then, a silence that feels less strained than before, but Harry still wants to know. He wants to know how this will end before they get back home and he gets taken by surprise.

“Are you scared?” Louis asks suddenly.

Harry’s scared of a lot of things. “Of what?”

“Us,” Louis says. “Me and you.”

Harry isn’t scared of them. He’s scared of what they can do to each other. He’s scared of how things will end, of the friendships he’s only just gotten back. “Terrified, actually,” he tells Louis.

Louis shifts so his head is laying on Harry’s chest, his mouth pressed up against the collar of his jumper. “Promise me something,” Louis tells him. “One more thing.”

Harry shakes his head and touches Louis for the first time in what feels like days. He buries his fingers in Louis’ hair, running them through the fine strands and trying to breathe. “I can’t promise you anything,” he says.

_"Harry_ ,” Louis stresses. He shifts again so his face hovers over Harry, his mouth close enough to kiss maybe. So Harry does, feels the tentative press of their lips together until Louis moves closer and deepens it. “Promise me something,” Louis says again, breathing out heavy against Harry’s neck. “Please.”

Harry shuts his eyes and focuses on the black behind his lids and the steady _thump thump_ of Louis’ heart against his. “What do you want me to promise?” he mutters eventually.

“Promise me we’ll try,” Louis says. “That’s all.”

Louis kisses him again, a little desperate this time, a little frantic, a little messy. Harry has to fight to keep up, has to arch up into Louis’ body just to maintain some control. Louis’ mouth feels rough against his, searching and wanting and expecting. He pulls back and stares down at Harry, pink mouth and pink cheeks and bright eyes.

Harry swallows against the affection he feels and lifts a hand to fix Louis’ fringe, the unkempt strands that have been abused by Harry’s fingers. “What happens when this is over?” Harry asks him. “When we get back to LA.”

“We try,” Louis says, like it’s that easy, that simple. He drops his head back down to Harry’s chest and just breathes. “So promise me that, you twat.”

Harry huffs out a laugh and relaxes into the ground, lets Louis’ weight pin him down and keep him there. “I promise,” he says, his tongue catching on the words so they stumble out of his mouth, graceless and clumsy but he means them.

And it’s only a promise, Harry thinks. Easily bendable. Easily breakable. Not that easily mendable, but nothing is. Not anything. But it’s also more than a promise. It’s the unsteady breath Louis lets out and the way his fingers tighten in Harry’s sweater. It’s the smile that hides in the twitch of Louis’ lips, carefully tucked away, but Harry’s looking for it now, so he sees it.

It’s the _love you_ that Louis murmurs, the words so soft they could get carried away out here, Harry thinks. Drift off someplace he couldn’t find them anymore. But he hears them and tries to keep them clutched tight to his chest, stitched into his heart. Another promise, maybe.

(Later it’s the way Louis clings to him, both of them hidden away inside their tent. It’s the way his breath feels hot against Harry’s mouth, Harry’s jaw, Harry’s neck. It’s the bruise Louis sucks there, red and raw and visible once more.

It’s more than a promise. It’s the slick-slide of Louis’ fingers pressing deep inside Harry, the lube spilling out over his fingers and the blankets. It’s the shaky breath Harry can’t help when Louis curls his fingers and hits right _there_ , sharp and pleasurable and unrelenting. Harry arches into the touch, their bodies pressed together and Louis so, so close.

It’s the, “I’m ready,” Harry manages to croak out, the gentle fingers Louis runs down his shoulder, across his ribs and over his belly.

It’s the low murmur of, “You have to be quiet,” that Louis whispers into his skin. It’s the condom slipped on with jittery, nervous fingers and more lube spilled. The hitched breath when he pushes inside Harry, his fingers clenching around Harry’s waist. He waits for the frantic shake of Harry’s head before he pushes in again, shaky and deep.

It’s the way Louis’ fingers press into Harry’s hipbones, little marks that Harry will have later, maybe, will be able to touch and feel the sting and remember. Louis drops his head onto Harry’s shoulder, thrusts into him on trembling arms and wide, careful eyes. Harry traces down Louis’ back, feels the scratches from days before, the raised lines of anger and release.

It’s the _oh my god_ that Harry can’t contain, the startled laughter from Louis at how loud it sounds in the dead of night. Neither of them are quiet, their breath too labored and strained for that, their moans barely caught between lips. Their curses bitten off and lost somewhere, chased by more when Louis presses in faster and deeper and harder and Harry grips the blankets tight.

It’s the way Louis shakes when he comes, biting Harry’s shoulder to keep quiet, his body trembling and fragile and heavy at the same time. It’s how he pulls out so carefully, watching Harry’s face a sign. He strokes Harry off, slow and tortured and good, whispering, “Come on, Harry, come on,” moving his hand faster until all Harry can say is Louis’ name. It tumbles out of Harry’s mouth like a mantra, like a prayer, until Harry can breathe again and his chest stops heaving.

It’s the way Louis stumbles out of the tent and sneaks into Liam’s bag, searching until he finds napkins and a water bottle.

Harry wrinkles his nose but doesn’t say anything while they try and clean up, sticky and sated and sleepy.

It’s the needy way that Louis drapes himself across Harry and says, “Okay?”

And Harry says, “Okay,” back, because that’s more than a promise, too.)

\-----

Los Angeles is sunny and mild, the weather unlike what Harry has gotten used to these past few weeks. They all seem to shed layers the closer they get, soaking up sun instead of dry wind and letting all the windows down. Harry drives because he knows this area better than any of them, turning off the GPS entirely and setting it back into the glovebox.

He turns the radio up, not too loud like Zayn or too low like Liam. Loud enough that they can actually hear the words and low enough that he can hear Liam's characteristic humming from the backseat, slow and steady and familiar by now. Harry taps his fingers against the wheel in time to Liam's voice and smiles when he hears the others join in with a choppy but well-versed harmony.

They get back to Los Angeles on a Friday, sweaty and tired and their legs cramped from too much time in a car. It's strange being home when there are four other people filling up the empty rooms and taking up space in his living room and kitchen and bedroom. They sit in the living room during the day, and only Niall and Zayn gain an appreciation for the Spanish novelas. Liam and Louis add their own dialogue over the Spanish, Louis getting increasingly more dramatic until Liam's red in the face from laughing and Louis looks satisfied because that was his goal anyway.

They order take-out for dinner Friday and Saturday. Chinese and then pizza, greasy food they’ve eaten too much of but can’t seem to resist at this point. None of them seem eager to leave the house, content with laying around on the couch and flipping channels until they can all agree on a television show to watch (Niall always wants to watch Food Network. Always. That’s alright for marathons of Cupcake Wars but then Zayn starts to get fidgety and encourages whatever ridiculous antics Louis has brewing and Liam sighs and tries to calm them down and Harry inevitably goes along with whatever Louis says, eventually.

“Oh, come on, I’m trying to watch this,” Niall complains. It’s pointless because Louis is already up and moving, talking a mile a minute and trying to convince them it would be fun to flash the paparazzi that have been hanging around outside or to dye Zayn’s hair red or to draw on Liam’s face because, “I think he’d look quite dashing with whiskers.”).

On Sunday Harry wakes up early, Louis and Niall and Zayn still asleep in the bed next to him. He throws on a sweatshirt that’s hanging off the door and pads into the kitchen and catches Liam at the sink, arms deep in soap and water and washing all the dishes Harry couldn’t be bothered with weeks ago. He’s humming, of course, always doing some variation of singing, and Harry watches him from the door.

Harry wonders if he should say something (wonders what he could possibly say that could even mean anything, something that doesn’t sound contrived and forced and polite), but then Liam is holding a plate over his shoulder.

“I wash, you dry?” he says, because Liam always knows.

Harry nudges him and manages to find a towel under the sink and they work in silence for a bit, the only sound being the low hum in Liam’s throat and the running water.

“Got a flight home for tomorrow,” Liam says finally. “Eleven in the morning.”

Harry nods slow, forces his hands to keep drying. “When did you book it?”

“This morning,” Liam says. “Couldn’t sleep after that. Booked Zayn’s too, because he’d forget otherwise.”

Harry sets the dishes down and leans against the counter facing Liam. “You don’t have to go, you know. You could stay here as long as you like.”

Liam smiles, the one that doesn’t make his eyes crinkle. The one that makes Harry want to thumb at the corners of his mouth and push the edges up and force them into something happier. “You know we’ve got to leave eventually,” Liam tells him, and Harry knows that, he _knows_ , but he’d rather he didn’t.

(Niall’s flight is tomorrow afternoon, he finds out later, and Harry almost wants to rewind everything from the past few weeks just so he can delay saying goodbye.

“We could go, too,” Louis says, when he and Harry are left alone in the kitchen to make dinner and Louis’ version of helping is sticking his fingers into the sauce. “If you want, I mean.”

“Could what?” Harry asks him.

Louis shrugs and lifts himself up on the counter, legs swinging. “You could see my flat in London,” he suggests. “Maybe we could make a trip of it and see your mum.”

“You’d want to do that?”

“Well, I’m sure you’ve probably told her awful things about me,” Louis says. “I want to set the record straight.”

And Harry says maybe but he thinks he might mean yes.)

They pile into Harry’s bed late, bellies stuffed and limbs heavy. Liam grumbles about having to wake up early, but it’s half-hearted and sleepy and he doesn’t complain when Louis turns on _The Notebook_ anyway. Harry doesn’t know when they all fall asleep, but they do, squished together and tangled up and twisted together.

\-----

The thing about goodbyes is that Harry doesn’t know how to do them. He’s always been awful with people leaving, always thought the absolute worst about if and when they were coming back.

It’s no different when Liam wakes them all up early so he and Zayn don’t have to get a taxi to the airport, all dressed with a smile on his face. It looks like it’s taking him a lot of effort to keep it there, so none of them say anything, but they know, and that’s enough.

Harry is terrible with goodbyes so he overcompensates and makes a huge breakfast with pancakes and eggs and fresh fruit. He sits too close to Zayn at the table, gives Niall an extra two pancakes and puts the plates and silverware in the dishwasher before Liam can offer to do them again.

The car ride to the airport reminds Harry of the the first day of their trip, when none of them knew what to say so they talked about everything and anything but nothing, at the same time. Now they stay quiet though, because they’ve said it all now. And they don’t want to ruin it with meaningless chatter. So Harry keeps the radio off and Liam doesn’t hum and Zayn even manages not to fall back asleep. So they’re quiet and they’re withdrawn but they’re all there, together.

Harry’s the worst at goodbyes so he tries not to do them. Instead he grabs one of Niall’s bags and rolls the smaller of Zayn’s suitcases once they get to the airport. He leans into the hand Louis puts on his back and he thinks he might miss them all already, maybe.

They must know he’s dreadful at goodbyes because Zayn hugs him tight, his hair down loose and he smells like that expensive cologne he always wears and too many cigarettes all mixed together.

“Make sure you call me the next time you want to run away,” Zayn mumbles into his hair and Harry smiles, something wobbly and shaky and genuine.

He smooths the hair back from Zayn’s face and breathes in. The sharp smell of the smoke burns a little bit and makes him scrunch up his nose but he stays close, his arms wrapped tight around Zayn and not wanting to let go. “I will,” he says, because that’s all he needs to say and Zayn gets that.

He inhales a shaky breath and clings to Liam like a vise and refuses to acknowledge the dampness he leaves on his shirt. Liam laughs quietly in Harry’s ear, gentle and a bit mocking and Harry misses him like a limb, even when they’re stuck together like this.

“Harry?” Liam asks. “Are you going to let me go any time soon?”

“Maybe,” Harry murmurs.

But he knows he has to so he does. And Liam only wipes a careful thumb under Harry’s eyes and says, “Don’t be a sap,” and it’s low enough that the others can’t hear and he’s smiling so Harry smiles back.

Louis wraps his arms around Harry’s waist and they watch Liam and Zayn walk toward their gate. “Miss them already,” Louis whispers and Harry doesn’t have to say that he feels the same way because Louis already knows.

He turns to Niall instead and says, “You sure you don’t want us to stay while you wait for your flight?”

And Niall’s unfortunate with goodbyes too, because he only wraps Harry and Louis up in a hug and says, “Bit tired of looking at you twats for so long, to be honest,” but they know what he means so they let him go, too.

Harry watches them leave and it’s goodbye but not really so he leans back into Louis and breathes.

\-----

“Promise me something,” Louis whispers in the middle of the night, when neither of them can sleep and the bed feels too big.

Harry thinks promises might be a bit silly. They don’t mean anything, not really, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s got a few etched into Louis’ bones, carved with a permanence that Harry means to keep. He thinks it might be a bit ridiculous to keep promising things, thinks he might be running out of room to make more.

“Okay,” he murmurs back anyway. “What is it?”

Louis runs his fingers over jaw, over his arms and his hands and his ribs, writes down invisible words in the lines of Harry’s palms. Harry wonders if Louis is leaving his own promises in Harry’s skin, wonders if the bruise on his neck and the imprints in his hips are promises of something only Louis knows.

“Promise we’ll be okay,” Louis says.

Harry wonders if there’s enough room to make a promise that big. If maybe he has to take one away just to fit this one in. He thinks he could fit all the promises into the bottles that are lined up in the bar, thinks that way the promises become more real, more tangible. Fragile glass and dangerous and breakable.

Harry thinks he might not really know what okay is, but Louis is warm next to him, solid and constant and questioning. He’s all wide eyes and nerves and vulnerability. And this feels alright, this might be some sort of okay, Harry thinks.

So he says, “I promise,” and it’s a stupid thing to say, but he says it anyway. There’s a part of him that wants to snatch the words back, wants to wrap them up tight and hide them away somewhere safe.

But Harry would like them to be okay. Would like to cross the promises off and make room for new ones.

So he says, “I promise,” and that feels alright, so Harry lets the words settle and stick.

And later, before Louis falls asleep, he’ll murmur, “Okay?”, just to be sure.

And Harry will answer, “Okay,” because he’s trying to be and he is and they are, for now.

\-----

_The End._   



End file.
